


The Conference

by agidged, CongratulationsBaby



Category: Franky Doyle/Bridget Westfall - Fandom
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:42:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 21,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26365891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agidged/pseuds/agidged, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CongratulationsBaby/pseuds/CongratulationsBaby
Summary: AU. Franky Doyle meets Bridget Westfall at an Interdisciplinary Conference in Sydney. Yes, it's a slow, slow burn.
Relationships: Franky Doyle/Bridget Westfall
Comments: 96
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work comes out of appreciation for all YOUR stories I’ve consumed. (You know who you are – I’ve commented enough!) I want to give something back, so I hope you enjoy. I'll release chapters bit by bit.  
> Legal disclaimer: As you know, these fascinating characters are not mine. Kudos to the writers of Wentworth.  
> This is AU – one where Franky hasn’t been stalked by Penissi and didn’t return to prison (yet?!)

Dr. Bridget Westfall hit it out of the park. As usual. 

A four-day conference, An Inter-disciplinary Look at Recidivism, was on its second day, and Dr. Westfall was that morning’s keynote speaker. Her talk, Psychological Support and Recidivism, was poignant and provoking. 

As soon as the next break rolled around, Bridget made a beeline for her upstairs hotel room. On the agenda next were a set of smaller workshops/presentations, with the same format tomorrow. She couldn’t remember which presentations she’d signed up for, but right now, she just needed a bit of space to check her all-togetherness. She was fairly used to public speaking, and she knew she did a good job, but it always left her shaky. 

***  
Just before she got to lunch, she was waylaid, as was often the case. Her 15+ years in forensic psychology, combined with her keen insight and unfaltering commitment to her work, made her one of Australia’s most preeminent practitioners. Not that she had all the answers (def not!), but she was happy to share her insights, the strength of which came from hard-earned lessons in the toss and tumble of prison hallways and solitary cells of despair.

She had been at Wentworth Women’s Correctional Institution for a little over a year now. It was proving to be one of her most challenging experiences, primarily due to the presence of a psychotic bully named Joan Ferguson.  
She didn’t have to watch her back today, and it made her realize just how much stress she had been under since she began working there. The situation was unprecedented, really: ex-governor-mad-woman-murderer slaughtered respected top dog - and to everyone’s horror, claimed that power for herself. Bridget cringed (really cringed) at the latest appalling atrocity: Lucy Gambaro - blood-drenched and half-tongued - spewing herself into the yard. Said tongue landing on Vera’s desk - boxed and gift-wrapped for her birthday.

As if on cue, she saw her boss, Vera Bennett, picking her way toward her. Vera was wearing a civilian suit, hair down, heels. Bridget smiled at the transformation. But out of the corner of her eye (and much to her chagrin), she spotted her conference nemesis, her persistent pursuer: Dr. David Bleary. 

Dr. Bleary was as bland as his name, though it was apparent that he himself had not yet reached that conclusion. He was headed straight for her in all his overbearing familiarity. 

“My dear,” David stretched both arms out to her. “Another WONDER-FUL performance!” 

It wasn’t a performance, she wanted to snip, but reeled herself in. She glanced at Vera with an ‘I see you’ look. She fixed her face to 'poker' and turned polite attention to David. 

His voice – much too loud for a coo ( but that’s the only way Bridget could describe it) rang out: “My lovely Bridget! Do make me the happiest man here and offer me the pleasure of your company this evening!” He grabbed her hand at this request. 

She turned slightly to Vera, as if saying, Are you seeing this?? But Vera was not looking at her, or at Dr. Bleary. She stood frozen like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Bridget swivelled on her toes (inevitable hip swing) and re-directed her sight to align with Vera’s. A tall, lean, gorgeous, raven-haired PRESENCE was about to crash their little circle. The woman (not too gently) placed herself between Bridget and David. Bridget’s mind reeled, but she heard the stranger address her: “We’re still on for that dinner & drink?”

Bridget was a quick study. She played along. 

“Of course!” she exclaimed. Her answer held not the slightest hesitancy, and she surprised herself. Admittedly, she felt somewhat off-kilter. Whatever was happening was happening in a blur. She struggled to focus on the nametag on the woman’s chest: F. Doyle.

F. Doyle held up 7 digits to Bridget in code, swung her attention to Vera, gave a slight bow, and said only, “Governor Bennett.” 

With that, she stepped away, her steps taking up correspondence with that of a tall, blond, gorgeous (young, Bridget registered) companion. About ten strides away, F. Doyle turned to look back at Bridget. Her tongue poked out of her mouth, taking obvious pleasure in what she had just pulled off.

David edged away, his face hangdog.

Just as Bridget was about to ask Vera for an explanation as to what just happened, Vera peeled out a high squeak: “You two know each other??! I didn’t know you knew Franky Doyle!!” 

Bridget was cool with her reply: “Well, I’ve heard all the stories, yours among them.” 

Vera narrowed her eyes. “Be careful, Bridget.”


	2. Chapter 2

Seven pm sharp found Bridget in the lobby. She knew, and was known, to most of those who streamed past her, familiar faces calling for her to ‘come join us’. True to form, the second evening of the conference was the time to par-tay. Giddiness swirled about her, like kids let out for recess.

She saw David lurking on a couch. He definitely did NOT look giddy. 

She ducked behind some greenery.

She watched the elevator doors clang open and shut with their usual hiss and whir. The bunch it expelled this time included a smiling F. Doyle. 

Franky bound toward her, sporting a cheek-to-cheek grin. Her green eyes danced in their beautiful symmetry, like something magical about them. She was fitted into black jeans, a collared shirt, and a blazer jacket that flashed a rich-red lining as she gestured: “Shall we?” 

Franky seemed to be on familiar terms with the doorman: they shared an infectious laugh and she high-fived him for waving down their taxi and opening its door. Franky maneuvered herself in first: long limbs contorting to the confined space. Bridget registered classic brown boots, only slightly-heeled. And long, long legs. 

Bridget was grateful that Franky was the one to crawl over the seats. She was wearing a cream-coloured blouse and a black, fitted, short skirt that didn’t have much give. Her heels gave her height, but not to Franky’s measure.  
Franky gestured - either to Bridget’s legs or her heels - and said, “Nice.”

Franky shifted so that her hands dangled over the front seat: “The Urban Potato – ya know where that’s at?”

“Little dive on Forester & Fern?” the bored driver drawled.

“Yup!” 

Franky turned to Bridget and grinned. “I’m Franky, by the way.” 

“I know who you are,” Bridget returned. Her own twinkling blue eyes held on to the teasing green ones. 

Franky bent toward her, as if telling her a secret: “Just do me a favour and pretend ya’ave never heard of me before, will ya?” 

Bridget could read sincerity and longing behind the flippant tone.

Bridget’s mind flashed to Vera. They had been enjoying lunch when Vera leaned over her plate toward Bridget. Deadly serious, she warned: “Doyle may be out, but in my opinion, she’s still dangerous. You have NO idea how she can manipulate people.” 

“Why did you chose this place? How do you know about it?” The words tumbled out of Bridget’s mouth. Her curiosity was genuine. 

“The chef, well, owner, is the brother of a guy I know. Actually, the guy – the other guy – the brother…” (Get it together! she told herself). She tried afresh: “I work at the Rustic Potato in Melbourne. Ever heard of it?” 

Bridget had not, but she registered the fact that Franky had stayed in Melbourne after her release from Wentworth.

“Well, that’s where I work, and this is the urban version of the restaurant, run by my boss’s brother.” She felt strangely proud of her ability to articulate this sentence. Bridget’s eloquence - and elegance - made her hyper aware of her own short-comings.

Ever since Franky's bold mandate, Bridget was wondering why ‘F. Doyle’ was at this conference. “What are you doing here?” she asked, simply. 

Franky quipped: “I wanted to see you.”

“I mean here - at this conference.”

“I guess time with tell,” Franky said, a bit cocky. 

She enjoyed watching Bridget’s mind click through possibilities. She took mercy on her: “Legal Aid wanted me here, so here I am.”

***

Bridget was very aware of Franky’s large personality – and her physicality - when a hostess led them to their table. Before they sat, Franky spoke quietly to the hostess: “Tell John Franky Doyle’s here, will ya?” 

A waiter showed up immediately with brightly-coloured cocktails, and placed them, just so, between the two women. The waiter murmured in Franky's ear: “He wants to see you before you go.” 

“Right-o.” 

Franky turned to Bridget. “Cheers!” They clinked glasses.

Bridget scrambled for something to say. “He’s the brother of…?” 

“My boss,” Franky finshed.

Franky sat back and crossed her arms, her eyes drilled into Bridget’s: “You’re smart, Gidget.” 

Bridget was… surprised (amused?). 

In concert with a dip of her chin, she let her honeyed voice rumble: “It’s Bridget.”

Franky was indeed looking extremely pleased with herself: “I prefer Gidget.”

Bridget laughed, flushed, and flashed her eyes at Franky, all at the same time. 

Franky was staring at her with a concentrated energy. Bridget wasn’t intimidated. She felt seen.

“You did real good this morning,” Franky offered, gently. 

Bridget usually knew how to take compliments, but this time she squirmed - and glowed.

***

Over dinner, the conversation seemed to take on a life of its own. It was as if they were old friends, playing catch-up. Franky was greatly impressed by how down-to-earth DR. Westfall was. There was no sense of her ‘talking down’ to Franky, nothing but genuine interest in her and her life.

One topic they covered in their dinner conversation was, inevitably, their mutual acquaintance. Franky had personally been the victim of Ferguson’s uncontrolled madness as governor. Franky’s empathy meant something to Bridget. 

Franky turned the tide and began fishing: “You seem to know all about me, so tell me about you. I want dirt.”

Bridget laughed and looked away. The left wall of the restaurant now held a familiarity, for all the times she’d cast her eyes to it this evening. She broke that pattern and looked instead at the ceiling.

Her vibrating voice contained amusement: “Well, you know I’m not going to give you dirt…” 

However, her expression turned quite serious: “If you were the prison psych, you’d be damn careful who you told what.” 

Franky read her mind: “Especially with the Freak.” 

Bridget leaned back, her turn to appraise and draw a conclusion. Deduction formed, she leaned forward, over her plate: “I can sense that you’re HIGHLY intuitive, Franky.” 

Franky was uncomfortable with such direct attention. Her problems with trust had lessened a bit from working with her therapist, but she was still uncomfortable when anyone REALLY looked at her. Like what was happening now.

She deflected: “So you’re into me, huh?” 

Bridget's expression remained open, and non-judgmental, but she didn’t give a verbal response. 

Franky relented: “You’re very intuitive to sense that I’m highly intuitive.” 

Bridget was glad with the progress, and pressed on: “And you use that to draw people in.” Bright-blue eyes drilled into Franky’s. “Your extrovert persona helps you get what you want, but it’s not who you are.”

Franky reared back, rattling their table. She raised her hands in front of her, a visible barrier. “Woah, woah –!“ she called out. 

She felt a flash of temper: “You met me for five minutes, and you think you know who I am?!” 

Fuck! Maybe she is a pushy, uppity doctor! 

Bridget didn’t say anything. The silence hung.

Franky felt rotten. She was the one to break the harmony, so she had to bridge the current awkwardness. 

“Look Gidget, I get it. You think you know me, and that’s okay. But like I said before, can we pretend you don’t?” 

Franky looked close to tears. “Just have a blank slate, a clean start, ya know?” 

Franky paused. Then she threw out, quietly: “I’m careful who I share myself with too.”

At that moment, John appeared, bringing his fresh, handsome-cool-dude vibe. “Frrannkky Doyle!!” 

Before they chatted a moment, Franky introduced “My buddy, Bridget.” John did not hide his admiration for Bridget’s loveliness. 

To Franky, too, Bridget was a vision: perfect, cream-pink-tinged skin, deep ocean eyes, her hair falling gracefully on the sides of her face from her messy bun. Her kind, peaceful expression.

Yes, Franky thought: lovely.


	3. Chapter 3

When a taxi dropped them back at the hotel entrance, Franky felt a moment of panic wash over her.  
She took Bridget’s elbow. “There’s a little park about half-a-block down. Ya wanna take in some air?”  
Bridget internally applauded the city planners for the courage it must have taken to keep a small parcel of city out of greedy paws.

They sauntered, without speaking, but without awkwardness. It was as if they had profound understanding of what the other person needed, even if they didn’t know it yet for themselves.

They sat on a bench in a quiet, intimate space, among greenery and its shadows’ shapes. Bridget breathed in deeply and exhaled. It was SO good to shed the day’s obligations. 

“This is nice,” Franky murmured. 

“Mmmmmmmmm,” Bridget hummed in agreement. 

The night breeze had a tiny bit of chill in it. Bridget shivered into Franky’s side. Franky flinched slightly; she wasn’t used to being touched - ever - without her permission. She stood, took off her jacket, and draped it tenderly around Bridget’s shoulders, gesturing her forward so she could fit it down her back. Red silk flashed in the lamplight. 

Bridget felt overwhelmed with gratitude. Franky saw her. Franky was kind. She took pleasure in the residual body heat circling her torso. She caught herself before she said aloud: ‘Thank you, my darlin’. She said instead, “Thank you, Franky Doyle.”

They sat for a long time in silence. We can just ‘be’, she thought in amazement. 

It was broken with Franky ironically confessing: “I don’t usually talk as much as I did tonight, Gidge.”

“I don’t usually laugh as much as I did tonight, Franky.” 

***

There was a bar adjacent to the hotel’s lobby, and when Franky and Bridget entered, Franky’s gorgeous, tall, (young) companion called out, loudly: “Commmme, commmeee have funnnnnnnnnnnn with usssssssss!” 

Franky glanced at her. She took a quick look at Bridget. “Nah.” 

Before she walked away she added a stern rebuke: “And you shouldn’t either, if ya know what I mean.”

Over dinner, Franky had filled Bridget in on who Brianna was, and what she was doing there. She was junior lawyer at Legal Aid; she also had been ‘sent’ to the conference.

Franky knew it was more probable than not that Brianna’s bar visit had accidently slipped into excess. She’d been there at least a couple of hours now. It was going on 9:30 pm. 

Franky gestured that she and Bridget were ‘going up’. 

“Waitttttttttttt!” Brianna called out. She was giggling. “Frankyyyyyyyy, waittttt.” Once she clambered off the bar stool she joined the duo as they stood at the elevator bank. As soon as Brianna approached them she lurched for Franky’s shoulder for support and fussed about with her shoe. 

The elevator dinged. Opened.

Brianna, who did have a bite to her bark, slurred: “Beauty first..” She made a sweeping gesture, to urge Bridget in first. Bridget pressed the button for level 3. Franky reached over her and hit 5. 

Finding their spots, Brianna put her head on Franky’s shoulder. She was whining: “These shoes are killing me!...” 

In the mirror, Bridget could see Franky scowl. 

“Do you have the room card, Franks?” 

“Owwww!!” 

Bridget didn’t see it happen, but she deduced that Franky had kicked Brianna in the shin by the way Brianna leaped away from her. She sidling up Bridget and cast a sullen look at Franky. “What-us that for?”

“For losing your card, dickhead.” 

“I never said I lost my ca- ard,” she hiccupped. 

Franky rolled her eyes at Bridget. “Lawyers,” she mouthed. 

Bridget snorted. 

When 3 lit up on the console, the elevator shuddered and flung its doors open. 

“So this is me,” Bridget said brightly. She had already thanked Franky, profusely, for dinner and conversation, and a walk and non-talk in the park. She had added that it was a bonus for John to kindly comp their food and drinks. 

The elevator began an insulted ‘okay then’ attempt to close and get on with its business. Franky lunged, and planted herself in the gap. Bridget safely stepped out. She ran her hand, lightly, over Franky’s arm. Brianna saw the unflappable Franky shiver. Bridget repeated her thanks, followed by: “I’ll see you soon?” 

They smiled shyly at each other. Franky shook off a sudden wistfulness: “Defs.” 

She was still straddling the opening. Bridget hadn't left the foyer.

With dramatic exaggeration Franky told her, : “I gotta get my PROFESSIONAL COLLEAUGE here sorted.“ She turned to Briana and scorched her with a look.

She turned back to Bridget, her voice serious: “There’s something I need from you.”

***

Bridget was used to ambiguity. She had ever been a study of human character and behaviour and by now she was quite convinced that there was nothing in this world that was black and white, right or wrong, this or that. Or nearly nothing: like everyone else, she was just trying to figure it out, make do with best guesses. Although she didn't know what she didn't know, by 41, she was comfortable allowing time and space unfold itself. It was her good fortune to have an upbringing that provided the kind of foundation required for that level of deep trust.

So, very simply, she did not know what Franky meant, and wouldn’t know, until Franky revealed it. 

As she readied herself for bed, as per habit, she ruminated over the day’s events. The highlight wasn’t giving the keynote address. The highlight of this day was an unexpected date. 

It was silly to call it a date, she mildly scolded herself. Her mind tried to convince her heart and body that it was not.

She changed into silver-steel grey silk pajamas. 

She took a more-careful-than-usual look in the mirror as she stripped off her make-up, let her hair down, brushed it, and flossed and brushed her teeth. 

While doing so, staring in the mirror, she considered Vera and her warnings. Bridget knew Vera’s natural tendency veered toward trying to control whatever was unfolding. This too, was foundational. 

She flopped on the huge, downy bed. Time always tells.


	4. Chapter 4

Franky didn’t change her clothes, although she did ditch her jacket over the back of a chair. (Admittedly, not before hugging it close, and taking a couple of good inhales. THIS she did NOT want Brianna see!)

She took a quick bathroom break and attended to some minor freshening up. When she returned to the main room (two beds, a desk, a chair), she saw a precariously-topsy Brianna in the fight of her life with her left-foot-killer shoe. She was nothing, though, if not, tenacious. Feat accomplished, she threw it across the room. “No good for nothing piece of shhhitttt!" 

Doggedly, she tackled the right. This one was fated for a more leisurely ker-plop.

She straightened herself up as best she could. Glanced at Franky, who was rooting around for something.

“What's she like?" - which, phonetically-singsongy, was more: 'Wa-ha she laa- hike? “You-who-who li-ike her.”

Without entertaining even a glance, Franky lobbed back: “What’s not to like?”

Brianna tried to stand up and maintain the position for more than two seconds. “Her…but… she’s a grown up. She did that speech thing – like… like she’s a really prof… a re-al professional.” 

“So? You’re a professional too, or so that paper of yours says so.” Franky glared at her roommate, followed by a pointed huff: “Seriously, you even remember why we’re here? Ya remember this?!” 

Franky waved the conference packet at her. “It’s like – tomorrow, bozo…. FYI.”

Brianna looked sheepish for a moment, but rallied. “Pfff.” It was her turn to huff. She looked away from Franky's piercing eyes. “All work and no play…” 

They both started for the door. Franky turned to her: “You really goin’ back to the bar?” 

Brianna nodded.

Brianna focused in as best she could: “You goin’ back to her?”

Franky nodded. 

She calculated that if she were quick enough, Brianna wouldn’t even make it to the door.... 

She dashed away. She patted her back pocket to make sure she had her room card.

***

Bridget opened the door at the first knock. Franky held up the conference packet. “Gidge, I need help.”

Bridget gestured to her face, hair, pj’s. “I don’t usually entertain like this, but you can come in.” 

“I don’t usually barge into hotel rooms asking for help with my homework.” She licked her lips. “Now as for barging in for other purposes….” 

Bridget laughed. Franky just might be the world's-best deflector! It demonstrated an awfully quick mind!

Her own mind was singing: silly! Her heart zinged: adorable! Her insides fluttered. She slouched forward to loosen her pajama shirt. She did so to hide nipples that were taut against the fabric. 

So Franky explained that her boss, Imogen Fessler, gave a presentation at this conference every year. But at the last minute, she sent Franky and Brianna instead. 

Bridget could see the logic. As much as she hated the thought of what Franky (most-likely) went through - her childhood, and the reasons she landed in prison - that kind of life experience couldn’t be learned through book knowledge, couldn’t be taught or bought. Heck, a lifetime devoted to the field couldn't even ever-so-slightly compare. 

So it appeared that Fessler had calculated, and taken, a risk: that Franky’d be willing to share her hellaciously -earned insights with the professionals on the other side of the bars and gates. There was no doubt she was capable: she was charismatic, intelligent, articulate, easy-on-the-eyes... The participants would surely gain something tomorrow. Legal Aid would get a plug. But was it good for Franky? If this didn’t go right, it could set her confidence way back. 

She sat on the two-seater couch and patted the cushion beside her. Franky saw bare feet at the bottom of luxurious pajamas. 

She sat, but it kind of felt like she couldn't breathe. She wanted, so much, just to say: Bridget Westfall, you are so beautiful. Regretfully, she reminded herself of her mission.

“So how can I help you?” Bridget’s expression was open, sincere, eager to help.

Franky gave her a sly, sidelong look. This was foreign: asking directly, straight-up, for help. “For one,“ she smirked, “I’d like to get into that mind of yours.” 

Bridget saw it all: Franky didn’t know how to ask for something she needed without revealing that she needed it. She accepted this too, without judgement. She could see, with her mind and her heart, what lay under ‘over the top.’

Franky looked through the packet and pulled out tomorrow’s itinerary. She pointed mid-way down: Imogen Fessler, Esquire Legal Aid, Melbourne 2-4:30 pm Lilac Room

Holy fuck! Bridget thought. She must be scared. 

Bridget studied Franky’s face. “What about Brianna?”

“Yeah, well, she’s the real lawyer, so she gets paid the big bucks, but you-know-who does the work.” Franky said this with sarcasm, and maybe even a tinge of bitterness.

She had been making excellent progress with her law degree when she was in prison. (When, she often thought, I had time and didn’t need money.) 

For all the negatives she could say about Erika Davidson (and when she tallied them, there were many), she did, in fact, give Franky the educational structure and guidance she needed.

Once she got out, she was on her own. And it was hard. She had jumped right into two courses. She passed one - how, she doesn't know, given her panic. She failed the other by a mere points. This prompted repayment of the subsidized tuition. Her first ass-wipe parole officer pushed her into getting a credit card. So she was in debt for failing. 

To make ends meet, she sold her time to the lowest bidder (notably: the only one that accepted her for her far-reaching mistakes): Legal Aid, 9-5. Plus, whenever their need matched her availability, she filled in at the Elephant's Web cafe (located conveniently downstairs from where she lived). More often than not, it was the early-morning bakers' shift. Same deal with dinner at the Rustic Potato. There were a few days she actually worked sun-up to sun-down.

At Legal Aid, she could only do so much. At first everything was new and exciting. The challenges didn’t fade, but her perception of what she could do to save the world had; that is, when she finally got the message that she couldn’t cowboy it up and 'get shit done' on her own and/or in her own way.

Being free was trillions of times better than parole, though undeniably boring at times. Parole meant that every single, solitary moment was purgatory: one bad decision from hell. Her therapist helped her set a routine, which made her feel safer. So she immersed herself in this. She put an X on the calendar each day she didn’t stuff up and still does to this day. It reinforces her confidence and her resolve.

After two years though, the routine that facilitated her freedom was now pretty much locking her in. She worked to pay bills; she paid bills to live; ergo, she lived to work. It was tedious. Depressing.

Franky rattled all this off to Bridget. She had been carrying this for some time now - a burden she hadn’t known where, or how, to put down. 

She finished up: so ya, she got pissed when, like now, Brianna wasn’t putting in the time – while still getting recognition, the bucks, the perks - and a future that promised more. Some people grew up on Easy Street: one she’d never be on or get anywhere near. That's just how the cookie crumbled.

Bridget took it all with aplomb. Her heart simultaneously ached for what Franky had endured and glowed with pride and respect for what she had apparently overcome. She was much more self-aware than any of Bridget's clients. Like everyone else (like herself!), Franky Doyle was a work in progress. 

She put her hand on Franky’s arm and rubbed back and forth. It didn’t satisfy the compelling urge to touch her, though, to take her in her arms and tell her... Tell her she was valuable and precious and one of the bravest - if not THE bravest – individuals she’d ever met. She wanted to cradle her and whisper through beautiful raven hair that none of it was her fault; that she’d weathered disasters the likes of which few could ever survive; that she was lovable and worthy. 

She spoke with tears in her eyes: “I am so proud of you, Franky.” 

The words washed over Franky - rainfall on cracked, parched ground. 

***

It turned out this wasn’t a ruse. They did actually work on Franky’s presentation. Bridget was able to offer some guidance and suggestions. 

They had been at it for close to an hour when Bridget suddenly sat back. “You know what? Just be you, Franky. Be yourself and tell them – tell us – what you want us to know.”

Franky nodded hesitantly. 

Bridget said more pointedly, but gently: “You don’t have to impress anyone, you know. You don’t have to impress me.” 

She wanted to Franky to know that it was alright to be her beautiful self.

Franky knew that ‘people like Bridget’ (the people attending this conference – even Fessler and Brianna) moved in a world so much, much more sophisticated than her own. She had nothing to impress them with, even if she tried.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I slipped chapter 4 in there, for anyone who missed it.

At the fourth beep of her alarm, Bridget managed to punch her phone quiet. She rolled over in the king-size bed and gazed at the ceiling. She knew, without a doubt, that Franky Doyle’s vulnerability with her last night was a rare gift. She placed a hand just under her breast. She felt a compulsion to feel her heart beat.  


Oh, Franky, you’re a really good person. I know you don’t believe that yet.

Franky, at that very moment, was pounding out her anxieties on a treadmill in the fitness room. She wasn’t good with trust stuff – and Brianna was making it really difficult. Brianna had a good heart, and their pseudo-caustic exchanges belied a genuine, mutual care. But she pleaded with whatever gods that Brianna’d step it up today.  


Thinking of stepping up… Wow – Gidget was really something. She probably couldn’t face today if she didn’t have Bridget Westfall at her back.

She’d said she was proud…

***

When Franky returned to the room, she encountered a very-stressed-out Brianna. She sat on the edge of the bed, face in her hands. Franky heard a muffled: “I am stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.” The refrain was interrupted with a lunge for the bathroom. 

Franky was digging through her backpack. She clued in to what was going on and bellowed: “You better not fuck things up in there because I need to shower!” 

Franky was reviewing last night’s ‘Cliff notes’ when Brianna finished her shower. Franky looked up.  
Brianna looked… lost. She was standing still, in her bra and panties, as if she’d forgotten what comes next. Franky pointed to the dress Brianna gooed about when she took it from her suitcase and put it in the closet the day they’d arrived. She pointed to it. “That one, Bri” she said. 

She glanced at her again. She thought how much Gidget’s words meant to her last night: I’m proud of you. She herself wasn’t proficient in the art of compliments. She looked at Bri again and added softly: “You’re beautiful, ya know.” 

Brianna didn’t answer but Franky knew it helped. She fussed about with her dress, shrugging and tugging it this way and that. She contemplated her draped body in the mirror. She motioned to Franky, could she help zip it up. Franky did. Their eyes met in the mirror. Brianna piped up: “You know that thing about public speaking…” Franky-in-the-mirror nodded. “Where you picture the audience in their underwear and it makes you more in control of the room, more confident?”

Franky had heard that. “Just in case its reverse psychology or something, I’m wearing my lucky ones.”  
It felt good to laugh like the mates they were.

***

Franky and Bridget’s paths didn’t cross all morning. Franky finally caught a glimpse of her at lunch. There she is, Franky thought: THE most stunning woman in the room, bar none.

She was at the ‘hilarity’ table. Obviously, the cool kids. Their ruckus dominated the air waves. It made everyone else’s lunch rather miserable, ‘less-than’.

Though at the ‘it’ table, Bridget was visibly ‘in-a-completely-different-world’. The look went well with her self-possessed dignity. A goddess, Franky thought. She told herself to stop staring.

She tried to focus herself. Definitely could not focus on the lunch in front of her right now. Leg crossed, she was giving her foot a shaking of its lifetime. She gnawed at the side of her finger. 

Brianna was, apparently, fine. A slight peakedness did nothing to take away from her sparkling attractiveness. And this, Franky observed, hadn’t been lost on the handsome dude beside her. 

Franky truly marvelled at how Brianna collected friends. This was probably a drinking buddy from last evening, now besties. Through all that social media garbage, it could very well be that Brianna would be connected to this dude, at least digitally, for the rest of her life. It seemed that that’s what people did now: collect friends.

She was definitively never going near Facebook or any of that shit. She’d had enough notoriety for a lifetime. But friends? For all her (self-recognized) charisma, she could count them on one hand: Boomer, Liz, Red, Allie, Dor.  


They certainly hadn’t been let in with a click of a mouse. They’d each proved their loyalty after she tried it again and again. And it was a muted sort of friendship, anyhow: for the most part, inaccessible. And she recognized the safety in that.

Which made her easy rapport with Gidget extremely curious…

She tapped Brianna. “Gotta go.” 

Brianna shifted her attention to Franky for a second. “Yeah, be right there.” 

Better be, Franky muttered under her breath.

Bridget was about to excuse herself from the hyperactive table. She pushed her chair back. As she did, her upward glance was met with serious, searching green eyes from across the room.

As she expected (hoped), Franky was waiting as she rounded the corner.

“All ready for your seminar?” She asked quietly. She looked deeply, caringly, into Franky’s eyes. 

Franky attributed the flutter of her heart to nervousness about the speech. 

She looked up and blew a raspberry. “I hope so.”

Without planning to - she reached for Bridget’s hand. Bridget extended her own and they stood like that for a long moment.

“Thank you for last night,” Franky finally said. 

She demonstrated a tremor as she released Bridget’s hand.

“That’s okay, it’s always good to be a little nervous.” Bridget squeezed her arm. “I believe in you.” 

Before they parted ways, she whispered: “Just be yourself. You are amazing.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading my story, and a special call out to the wonderful leavers-of-kind-comments. I can keep 'em coming for a while, just hope you don't burn out from the slow burn.

At 1:40ish, Bridget made her way to the Lilac Room. She noticed the large poster: 

I.N. Fessler, Chief Executive Officer  
Legal Aid, Melbourne

Someone had taped a blue piece of 8x12 paper under it, with a thick-black-marker update: Brianna Henry, Esquire & Francesca Doyle. 

Bridget was very accustomed to spirited conversations with herself within her own head. But seeing the word ‘Melbourne’ and ‘Francesca Doyle’ slammed home what her semi-consciousness had been skirting, though niggling at her, since last night. And that is the fact that this incredible woman had been orbiting HER world ALL this time! 

When she began at Wentworth, the ‘urban legend’ had just been paroled. Her name rippled on, though, like aftershocks. In the kitchen (‘slop after what we had with Doyle’); the library (‘same ole shit now that Doyle's gone’); black and blue women muttering how ‘Doyle woulda taught that bitch a lesson’; distressed hopelessness over 'fuckin’ lawyer mumbo-jumbo'. 

She had also heard her name spoken in what could only be called disgust (Vera!) and in hate (Tina Mercado and crew.). And - Oh my God! – it was FRANKY Joan Ferguson meant that day!

The memory was crystal clear. She was sitting behind her desk, admittedly isolating Joan, and only half-listening to one of her wearisome monologues. Her large teal form was slinked in a green chair; her steepled fingertips tapped out arrogance; black beady eyes did their best to pierce her soul. Her enigmatic declaration: “If I’m not… [characteristic pause] mistaken, Ms. Westfall [not Dr, Bridget noticed], I do be-lieve you’d rather somewhat favour someone like… let’s say, one of Wentworth’s most intelligent top dogs.” 

At the time, all Bridget wanted to do was wipe that condescending smirk off her face. But now – now she was entirely creeped out. Because Joan uttered her next words as fait accompli: “You wouldn’t be able to help yourself.” 

So here she was. 

Bridget steadied herself into it a chair. She grabbed her water and took a long drink. Her hand trembled.  
She forced herself to notice her surroundings, trying to ground herself. The room had filled to the max while her mind had been re-visiting Joan’s – what? prediction? premonition? Even here, the Freak was fucking with her mind?!

The volume in the room told her that the speakers hadn’t arrived. Something else was nagging her, though: something about the proximity of Franky’s orbit with her own in Melbourne. She’d heard of the theory ‘six degrees of separation’, but she had never had cause to consider it in relation to her own life.

So when she asked Franky who she was seeing for therapy, and Franky told her, Dr. Maureen Ellis, Bridget had exclaimed her surprise. They’d once shared office space! Four them, in private practice. At the moment, her only thought had been to assure Franky that she had found a good one.

Her brain flittered. Something significant… instantly evaporated. She couldn’t quite place her finger…

Wentworth… Maureen… counselling… 

The impact was physical: OH MY GOD!! I COULD HAVE BEEN HER THERAPIST!!!

It was so obvious, but she hadn’t framed it that way until now. At any one of these time/locations….

THE IMPLICATIONS!!!!!

She could only hear the blood rushing through her ears, so she wasn’t aware of someone kneeling beside her end-row chair. That someone’s soft lips just nearly - ever-so-faintly - brushed her ear: “Just want ya to know that I got a good tip, Gidge. I’m supposed to picture everyone in their underwear….” 

Franky strode to the front. If Bridget hadn’t been in the middle of a circuit meltdown, she would have registered the tingle that ran down her spine. Even so, she couldn’t help herself: she had to smile.

The clock on the wall read 2:02. Franky stood beside Brianna. When Brianna looked up from her notes she wheeled Franky around so that their backs were to the audience. “Holy fuck!!”

“Hey,” Franky said to her friend. She placed her hand on her shoulder. “You got this. You’re smarter than hell, Bri.” She gave her a nudge in the shoulder, “Go show ‘em.” 

Despite her encouragement to Brianna, Franky herself stood there wondering how the fuck she got roped into this. She had no business being here, let alone ‘sharing’ her ‘expertise’! Her palms were slick and a boom-boom-boom filled her ears. 

Her fear-filled eyes sought Bridget’s. Bridget responded with a ‘calming hand’ motion. Breathe, just breathe. 

Franky knew that the magnitude of her relief was probably not commensurate with the occasion, but that little gesture meant everything. She breathed it: Gidget has my back. Gidget has my back. She managed a feeble thank-you wink.

***

Brianna did a really good job of exposing how crucially underfunded legal aid is. She linked their office’s budget with statistics and data on recidivism. 

Bridget was impressed – not only with the content, but by Brianna’s composure. She articulated each word perfectly. Her points were logical and coherent. Wow! Bridget thought! As she re-evaluated last evening’s impression, positive qualities built up: intelligent, beautiful, vivacious. Young. 

Brianna took much less than the full hour, including her little introductory spiel about who Franky is and why she was here. 

So, she is the star of the show! Bridget’s nervousness rose a notch. This whole scenario was - psychologically - very risky. 

The room was silent, save for minor rustling. 

Franky began - very hesitantly: “In case ya didn’t know, you’re an awfully intimidating crowd.” 

Sprinkles of laughter. 

“So I’m Franky Doyle.” 

She motioned to Brianna: “She’s the real lawyer, and I’m the real ex-con.” 

Sparse, scattered laughter. 

“She’s here to keep me in check.”

An archipelago now.

Good for you, Franky. Bridget breathed. You just broke the ice. 

Franky’s expression was thoughtful: “Ya know, I gotta be honest with ya. I didn’t want to come here and do this today…. “ She paused just slightly: “Or any other day, for that matter.”

She added - out of the side of her mouth - a de soto confession. “…Still don’t want to…” 

Oh my dear, dear Franky. You are an entertainer, aren’t you? 

Bridget twisted in her chair to take in the packed audience. People were standing in layers against the back wall. More spilled out the doorway. Bridget knew that some in this crowd had never met a ‘criminal’ before in this capacity. She felt a flicker of anger at the palpable eagerness in the room: the hands-rubbed-together-anticipation to voyeur into an underworld they ‘treated’ and ‘served’ but from which they stood self-righteously apart. Never in a million years would they make poor, fucked up decisions like this poor woman before them. Franky’s rough accent did nothing to bridge the divide.

Bridget’s vision registered Vera - a few rows back, smack in a centre seat. Her arms were sealed over her chest, her expression mixed with challenge and disapproval. 

Oh NO. No-no-no-no-no-no-no, Bridget pleaded.

Something unusual popped up in Bridget’s scan: a well-dressed middle-aged man was holding up his phone, obviously recording the session. He wore a press badge. He looked like the cat who just ate the canary.

***

Franky didn’t reveal anything that wasn’t already on the public record. But as she got beyond the skeleton of facts, she wove in extremely perceptive insights. 

The room was transfixed.

She spoke cogently – confidently – and with an air of authority. She was telling them what they needed to know. 

***

As she was winding up the session, Franky paused, as if suddenly at a loss. When she spoke next, it was with burning intensity. Her face was stark with honesty: “Look, I’ve got to be honest with you. Recidivism?…. I don’t have answers any more than you do.” 

Her gaze swept the room, left to right. “Y’all studied your brains out so I’m probably not tellin’ ya something new. And I lived your stuff, hey? Your ‘best practices’ and ‘pilot programs’, ‘new directions’ and ‘evidence-based corrections’.” She used air quotes. 

She pointed to a man near the front: “Maybe one of them was your idea, ya? – Your baby.” She gestured smack-dab to middle of the room and met Vera’s stare: “Maybe yours.”

“I’m not dissing the programs – Lord knows basket-weaving is enthralling when you sit with yourself the other 23 hours of the day. And I’m not dissing y’all for studying yourselves to death. In fact, thank you.” She was truly sincere: “Thank you all for trying.”

Her expression cycled through helplessness, defeat, hopelessness.

Bridget wondered how many of her colleagues were thinking what she was thinking: What was it like, to be treated like that? To be chained up and told what to do? Stripped of free will? Punished. The despair of shame was its own torture! To lie down at night breathing the anguished air of regret?

Franky shrugged deeply. Her face cleared of the show of horrors she had been seeing. Her shrug seemed to help. She just needed to get over the finish line. She gazed at Bridget. Bridget gave her a ‘you’re doing great’ nod.

“Listen, what we need, what we really need - when it comes right down to it - is our dignity. We’re real people. Human beings. Same needs as you.”

Her expression softened: “And when you really care, it’s not all talk: your actions will show it.” 

Her gaze found its way back to Bridget. 

“And that can make all the difference in the world – if there’s at least one person in the world who gives a shit about you.” 

The applause went on for a bit. 

Bridget was bursting with pride. She made a start toward the front, but not before someone gripped her arm. She traced the arm back to a faint acquaintance. “We haven’t caught up yet, Dr. Westfall! Where have you been? How are you?!!”

Before she was dragged away to be chit-chatted at, she saw that a crowd was pressing in around Franky and Brianna. Lots of smiles. A hug or two. Even some tears.

To Franky, the whole thing had been a blur. She couldn’t wait to get outside to get some air.


	7. Chapter 7

Franky propelled herself up five flights of stairs, freshened up, skipped down two, and knocked on Bridget’s door. It was 6:45 pm. Her own itinerary said D-U-N.

She wasn’t really expecting Bridget to be there, but just to be sure, she followed up with her mouth to the door: “Gidget?” 

It was a long shot, but still... A heavy disappointment ran through her veins.

Not surprising, her rational-self countered: Dr. Bridget Westfall was obviously very well respected and popular, both personally and professionally. Everyone would want a piece of her.

Franky was hit by a tsunami of shame. Really?! She had so many fuckin’ blind spots! Arrogance! What claim….??? 

In essence, she’d literally forced herself on Bridget these past 24 hrs. Monopolized her. Called her ‘my Gidget’ in her head; imposed on her night-time routine; held her hand… (had she, really??); placed a swaggered whisper in her ear… While every ounce of attention was probably just a professional courtesy: something the good doctor would do for anyone in her shoes. She felt stupid, ashamed.

She extracted her phone from her an inner pocket. Guess she’d look for somewhere cheap to eat. She’d let Brianna know she was going out the back way. She leaned against Bridget’s door, typing. 

Her ears – and/or some inner vibration? – detected a faint click, click, click, click. 

Franky peered way down the hallway. 

What could only be called ‘her ladyship’ was coming straight toward her – one perfect leg over the other. Fluid. Elegant. Poised. Sexy as all get out. HOT. So Damn Hot!!

Bridget wore a smirk, and wore it well. When the space between them disappeared, she turned to Franky: “Cat got your tongue?” 

Franky had not known before that she had the capacity to be speechless.

After proficient praise for a stellar, A-1 job, Bridget turned her attention to digging her room card out of her purse. In doing so, she couldn’t help but notice the screensaver on Franky’s phone. She raised Franky’s arm and brought the phone to her own view. 

“Niece?” she asked.  


It appears, Franky panicked, that said cat still has my tongue.

Bridget let her arm fall. 

Franky croaked: “Sister.” 

Bridget pressed her card to the reader. It clicked and beckoned green. 

”Unbelievable!” Bridget looked from the card to the reader, and back. “Guess you’re my lucky charm! I never get these things on the first try.” 

Franky wanted to quip that the door luck was a consequence of her lucky undies. But she remembered she didn’t have to impress this woman, and her brain was mush anyhow.

After a few beats she managed: “My little half-sister, Tess.”

Bridget stepped into the room and found the light switch. She gestured ‘come in’. 

Franky found herself, once again, in Dr. Westfall’s hotel room.

Franky would usually have teased: We have to stop meeting like this…. But without moxie she really had nothing. Oh God, she was so out of her league! 

So she stood, silently, in the middle of the room, visually tracking Bridget as she flung her purse there and kicked her shoes off there. 

Franky realized she was staring: “It was her birthday yesterday. I didn’t wanna miss it, but….” She trailed off. “That’s one of the reasons I was so pissed with Fessler, making me come here.”

Bridget went to the window and pushed a curtain aside. She gazed out for what seemed like forever, but was probably only a few seconds. She let the fabric fall, and turned. “Are you still not wanting to be here?”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Franky managed. Truth be told, she couldn’t think of one other place in the whole wide world she’d rather be. Exactly why and how she hadn’t sorted. It just felt good. Fuck trying to label it.

The day caught up with her and she plopped on the edge of Bridget’s bed.

“You okay?” Bridget’s inflection went up. She stepped closer. “It must have been weird for you, up there today.”

Franky forced nonchalance: “Just as weird as anything else in my life, Gidge.” Her flippant persona had returned - but it felt... wrong. 

“Look, I just came here to say thank you. Again. When I was standing there - I knew I’d stuff up - but then I’d look at you – and… you had my back.” 

Bridget wondered if she’d EVER had that before.

“Of course, Franky. You did real good.” Bridget’s voice was pure honey. Franky could listen to it rumble forever. 

“You know the saying ‘the pleasure was all mine’?” Her expression carried what she left unspoken.

She added: “Everyone’s gonna want a piece of you now.” 

Nah, Franky thought. Bridget was kindly projecting her own success on Franky. 

To deflect from the praise, and because she felt like she was being a moron for just sitting there, she quipped: “And, I had fun, visualizing everyone in their undies, by the way.” 

Bridget couldn’t help herself but laugh. 

Franky pulled out her phone to check the time. 

Bridget saw this and asked: “Hey, you wanna get something to eat?” 

“Nah,” Franky said. “It’s okay. You have other people to see and stuff. I shouldn’t…” She got to her feet.

Bridget made a show of placing herself in front of the door. Her next sentence was breezy, light: “I hate to be a party pooper, but I would much rather we just eat in here than go out. Is that okay?”

She didn’t budge from the door and she didn’t take her eyes off Franky. Her expression was many things: playfulness (I got ya); genuine care, (I know you’re peopled-out and over-extended) and something else… wistfulness? 

The wistfulness, if that's what it was, grabbed at Franky's heart. She saw a vulnerable Bridget, wanting to hide out.  


She tried to contain a grin, but it split, ear-to-ear, dimples and all. “What - they got room service or somethin’ at this fancy joint?”

Bridget’s arm brushed hers when she removed herself from her post at the door. It was electric.

Bridget was rummaging around the desk top, shoving papers back and forth. Franky watched. She was quite certain she was a lesbian?? Curiosity bubbled. They hadn’t discussed anything so directly personal. A repeat of so-themed thoughts (last night in bed, all day today) she wondered: Was she single? In a relationship? Seeing someone? There was no ring, so probably not married...

Yes, Franky was VERY, VERY keenly aware of her as a ‘woman’, especially here, in this hotel room: petite, perfectly proportioned… those hips (those hips!)… perfect breasts… long, graceful neck… tight, perfect jawline… her messy, golden hair… Even her ears looked perfect! Indescribable eyes… just beyond words…so deep and pure…

Had she been someone else, someone BETTER, Franky may have dared asked the questions she wanted answers to. Had she been an equal, she might dare to trace this finest of faces; maybe lift her perfect chin; run her fingers along her jawline; kiss her neck…. She may have brushed over the crinkly laugh lines around her eyes and asked silently for her permission… Those lips...

She rebuked herself and went to the window. So clear were the contrasts – even the most casual look spelled multiple differences. Crucial ones, too, like life stage – and that thing about having committed a crime, being a felon - someone who deserved to be locked up. And money and class! The tailored clothing, all fine and fancy; this room, more luxurious than any place she’d ever set foot in; room service (!); probably some aristocratic pedigree, the ruling class. Wholesomeness. Perfectly non-fucked-up.

If Bridget noticed Franky’s staring, or her silence, she ignored it. She offered her a menu, a sly look on her face. 

“I am hungry,” Franky admitted. “I couldn’t down lunch.” Teasing eyes watched Franky lean in to the menu for focus; saw the concentration of a double, triple-check.

Franky tossed the menu across the room. “FUCK OFF!! NO fuckin’ way!” 

Bingo, Bridget thought. They should all react so honestly to $15 for a glass of juice.

Franky was a much-needed breath of fresh air.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest may come quickly.... I need to stop editing/re-writing and move on to all the things I've been neglecting/avoiding... Thanks for reading.

Neither of the two stubborn women could really say how it happened, but somehow Bridget convinced Franky that she would treat her; and somehow, Franky let her. 

Within 40 minutes or so, a waiter ushered a little cart into the room. He set the tiny table. Franky saw that Bridget had ordered a bottle of red wine. 

As if she read Franky’s mind, she asked, “Is red okay?” 

Franky nodded. She wasn’t much of a drinker – for two reasons in particular: one, because she literally couldn’t afford it; and two, because she metaphorically couldn’t afford it. Couldn’t risk her faculties, control.

Their ‘stay-in’ dinner turned out to be as lively and full as the previous evening’s. That meant forks stabbed in the air; mouth really-too-full-to-be-talking; hand on the chest in surprise; head-tilted-back laugher; simultaneous sentence-finishing. 

Though a tiny, tiny voice persisted that she shouldn’t be stealing Bridget’s time, she got totally sucked in. Every part of her felt good. It was her first experience of pure enjoyment. 

Bridget was distracted, by something on the table. Or rather, by what was NOT on the table: “We didn’t get dessert!” she cried. “We should have gotten dessert!"

The news was equally upsetting to Franky: “How’d we fuckin’ forget the fuckin’ dessert, Gidge?!” 

Bridget grabbed the menu off the bed and picked up the landline.

While Bridget was on the phone, Franky discovered that behind the flowy-showy curtains, was a balcony. “Ya shoulda told me about this last night!” Franky whined as soon as the phone was plunked in its station. “I made you tromp down there to that rinky-dinky park in those lady- heels?!”

“Whell,” Bridget grabbed the wine and their glasses. “That’s so we can enjoy it tonight.” 

They were both still in their dress clothes, which added to being too full for comfort. They had moved inside and were slouched, parallel, on the couch: heads against the back rest, chins slightly up-tilted. It was an ‘I’m exhausted’; ‘I’m spent’; ‘I’m really comfortable with you’ posture.

Franky commented: “I could get used to this.” She wasn’t exactly sure what she meant, although she kind of did.  


“I couldn’t.” Franky startled a bit. See - she didn’t like this!

“I can’t wait to get in my own bed,” Bridget said. Mock-innocence spilled from her rich contralto voice. 

Franky broke the spell. “I gotta hit mine.” She went to raise herself from the couch. Bridget grabbed her forearm. 

“Just stay,” she said softly. 

Franky’s eyebrows shot up. 

Bridget cajoled: “This has been an exhausting day for you…. Just rest.” She got up from the couch, reaching around for the zipper at the back of her dress. “I gotta get out of this dress. I’m surprised I was able to keep it on this long.”

Franky’s eyebrows went up again and her eyes went wide.

Once she heard the shower, Franky kicked off her shoes. She climbed onto the huge bed. She placed a forearm up over her forehead. Within seconds she was fast asleep.

***  
When Franky awoke, she found herself sprawled out on the top of a very large bed in a very white, very large, very fancy room…. It appeared that Bridget covered her with a sheet and blanket.

Oh fuck, she thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was a real ‘overstay your welcome’ if there ever was one. Talk about imposing! Shit!!!

She looked for signs of nightmarish destruction, but strangely, all seemed to be in order.

She did a series of mini kicks and extracted herself from her wrappings. 

She ran her tongue over furry-feeling teeth. 

She looked over at Dr. Bridget Westfall, still and beautiful and deep in sleep. Franky whispered: “Gidget … You’re way, way too good to me…” 

She tip-toed about in search of both shoes. She crept to the door, eased it open. A last look at her guardian angel, and she was gone.

In her sock feet, she headed for the stairwell.

***  
Vera rounded the corner. She hadn’t seen much of Bridget lately, and intended to ask if maybe they could grab breakfast together. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of Doyle edging Bridget’s door closed and tiptoeing away. 

Her mouth flew open, hand clasped over her heart. 

She turned to go back the way she came. 

She spun back for another look. Maybe she dreamed it? 

The hallway was vacant. No Doyle.

She would not put it past her – especially given the whole dinner-date rouse. This bold move meant she really pulled the wool over poor Bridget’s eyes. 

In truth, this shook her unshakeable admiration for her mentor.

She glanced at her phone. It was too early to go to breakfast anyhow. She pivoted and retraced her steps back to her room.

***  
Vera could not help herself. An hour later found her knocking delicately on Bridget’s door: wrap, wrap, wrap. She had already sent her a text, asking if she wanted to go to breakfast, but since she hadn’t heard back, she’d decided to just take a quick-like-a-bunny trip the down hallway. 

(Like earlier, she grimaced). 

Her fist was raised and poised (just one last knock) when the door flew open. She got a peak into Bridget’s large suite. The bed was mussed. Bridget’s dress lay over the back of a chair, purse flung here, one shoe here, the other there… Her hair was wrapped in a towel, her body absorbed in a classic-hotel robe. 

“Vera!” She was, but wasn’t, surprised. “How can I help you?” 

***  


Bridget met Vera in the hotel dining room. Vera was nervous about what she had to do, but she didn’t want to tip her hand. 

“The food – umph - at this hotel - umph - is really good.“ Bridget finished chewing and ducked for a drink of water. 

“Sorry, I should know better than to talk with my mouth full!”

“You’re in a good mood.” Vera wasn’t altogether pleased with this fact.

“It’s been a really good conference, don’t you think? What about you? Are you doing okay?”

Vera took a drink of coffee and gulped. 

Bridget continued: “I saw you in the Legal Aid workshop yesterday. They did a good job, don’t you think?” 

“Yes – ahem. Yes.” Admittedly, Franky and Brianna did VERY well.

“Is that what you expected of Franky?” Bridget wanted to poke a bit.

Vera gave a slight snort. She sat back on her chair. She searched Bridget’s face, looking for… guilt? 

Bridget looked her same fresh-faced beautiful self. 

Vera leaned ahead and took a big gulp of coffee. “Wow!” she said. “That’ll wake you up!”

Bridget did nothing to diminish her companion’s discomfort. 

The act of realigning (stiffening) her posture seemed to increase Vera’s confidence. 

She had to get rid of this burden: “Bridget, I know you’ve been spending time with Doyle.”

Bridget wasn’t surprised. It was no secret. But she was surprised: how exactly the fuck was this any of Vera’s business? 

Vera’s speech was rapid, panicky: “You need to be very careful. Franky Doyle is not who you think she is. She’s not someone you want to get entangled with… No good ever comes from…” 

Bridget stopped listening, rare anger rising. 

From what? she wanted to ask. No good ever comes from what? Poverty? Physical, mental, and emotional abuse? How about hunger? Or not knowing where you’d be sleeping that night? How about being frightened your whole entire life - and never being able to reveal even a sliver of it, for fear you’d be eaten alive?

She watched her hand claim a piece of the table, palm flat. She spoke deliberately: “I know you’re a fair person – “  


Vera interrupted: “I do. I am.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little unfair to judge Franky now? She did her time, Vera, and that means she’s free to live her life. No more judgement.” 

Bridget’s unwavering gaze was open, honest.

Vera knew she was out-powered, but she tried again. “It just that… I don’t want you to be hurt or be taken advantage of…. You don’t -”

Bridget very deliberately gathered her plate and utensils in a neat stack to be bussed. She pushed back her chair: “Excuse me, Vera, but I’ve gotta run. We have to be out by noon and I haven’t packed yet.” 

She directed herself as if to walk away, but swung at the hips: “You’re flying back to Melbourne this afternoon?” 

“Um, yes. Well, no. This evening. Actually.” 

Vera knew of Bridget’s plans to take a side trip to see her parents. 

Bridget paused to take a last look. She did so kindly. “I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

Vera conceded, mission unaccomplished: ‘’Kay”.


	9. Chapter 9

Breakfast over, Bridget ran up to her room to brush her teeth and pack her bags. There was a final plenary session from 9 to 11, and then the grand dispersal would begin. She took a good look around the room to see if she missed anything. She checked herself in the mirror one last time and went downstairs. 

The event room was large, but crowded even so. At first, Bridget could not see Franky at all, but then she spied Brianna’s crown of blonde. Brianna shifted slightly, and there was her first glimpse of Franky for the day.

Bridget’s breath hitched. She couldn’t say if her hand flew to her chest or not, but likely it did. Franky was stunning! Refreshed. Whole and restored. Wholesome. Sparkling. She was chit-chatting it up with a doctor Bridget knew. Actually, it looked like she was stitching him up!

Franky looked up. Green eyes met blue. Franky smiled out her inner beauty. She put her hand on the man's arm and moved away. 

Bridget made her way to Franky, and Franky the same. When she got close enough Franky asked her, voice intimate, a note of concern: “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” she said brightly. “I’m good.” She smiled at Franky. She figured that was about looking tired and old.

The session was starting. : “I’ll save you a seat, okay?” 

Franky gave her a nod.

Bridget headed for a row that had two vacant seats, and claimed them both. She was lost in her thoughts until she heard her own name. 

Jesus, Bridget! she thought. “…And as always, Dr. Westfall has given us a considerable amount to think about…and act upon.” 

Where was Franky? She turned and caught Franky’s eye. She motioned to the empty chair. 

“…And I cannot tell you how thrilled we are this year…” 

The moderator had picked up steam and was beaming munificently at the front row, where - Bridget realized – she was expected to be. Probably Franky and Brianna too.

“… our dear warrior-colleague, Imogen Fessler, who could not be here herself…” 

Franky precariously navigated knees, shoes, handbags, worn conference packets, a used Kleenex, short coffee cups and taller water bottles.

Just as the moderator said (mis-said) “Franse Doyle” Franky tripped. 

She landed partially in the vacant chair, and partially in Bridget’s lap. 

Bridget giggled like a school girl.

***

Yakaty-yaking filled the foyer, suitcases yanked this way and that, selfies here and goodbye kisses there. The check-out queue extended back to the bar. 

Bridget had settled her bill earlier (she knew some tricks!) and she’d had her suitcases taken to her car. She swapped out her earlier dress clothes for jeans and a t-shirt, leather boots. She held a brown leather jacket, folded, over her arm. Her hair was in a messy ponytail. Loose blond strands, as typical, framed her face. 

The automatic door whooshed. Open-closed, open-clo.. open…open. 

Slamming taxi trunks and take care’s – all the buzz and cacophony of people clearing out.

She could have been on her way already. She could have avoided this mess - but she didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to -

Dr. David jack-in-the-boxed in front of her. It caused Bridget to startle. He was already mid-gush: “…and as you know, my dear Bridget, I so look forward to seeing you each year and this, as ever – well, it has been a delight.” He was so fuckin’ in her personal space. She backed up and bumped into someone. “ … am so tremendously disappointed that our evening didn’t work out.” 

OUR evening? Bridget thought. He was now pitter-patter-ing her hand. “You are truly inspiring, really, and just wonderfully always the same, and as beautiful as ev-“ She had to shut this down.

“Thank you, David.” She edged away. “I wish you well. Safe home!”

David’s encroachment had pushed Bridget away from her stake out, so that she no longer had a good view of the elevator. She happened to be positioned at just the right place, though, to see Franky and Brianna burst from the stairwell. Brianna was wrestling with the mass of a suitcase. Franky had a single backpack thrown over her shoulder and was trying to help. Brianna did NOT look impressed! As Bridget made her way closer, she could hear Brianna telling Franky off. 

“So much for the fuckin’ stairs, you idiot dickwad genius!”

Franky helped her heave the suitcase and place it upright on the floor. It toppled to its side. Brianna picked it up and forcibly banged it on the floor. A wheel popped off and wobbled away. 

“Piece of shit!” she yelled. She glared at Franky. “And fuck you!”

Bridget was wondering if she was the only one in on this side show. Her visual sweep took in Vera. She stood across the room, her belongings tightly around her.

The obvious hit Bridget: They’re going to be on the same flight! Same shuttle! Same lounge… 

Escaping Brianna’s wrath, Franky strode directly to Bridget. “I didn’t know if you’d wait, Gidge.”

Bridget looked at her sadly, “Yeah, I didn’t want to run off without saying goodbye.”

Franky was the one to turn away.


	10. Chapter 10

When they got to the airport lounge, Brianna declared she had a headache and would people just leave her the fuck alone. At least that meant Franky didn’t have to be ‘on’. She needed time and space to think. 

Vera’s who-done-it mystery helped to distract her from the impossibility of flying through the air in a steel capsule. She hadn't slept much night. It was a rare-to-none event, seeing one of her prisoners – ex-prisoners – on the outside. It was even more jarring to be lectured at by one.

It would be a relief to be back at work tomorrow. Right now though, her bladder was bursting. She didn’t want to, but she just had to. Gingerly, she conquered row after row until she reached her destination. She snapped ‘vacant’ to ‘in use’ with relief. 

On the way back to her seat, she couldn’t help but scout out Doyle. Her friend, Brianna, was asleep against her shoulder. Doyle was seemingly staring into space. Vera thought how good they looked together: like a well-matched couple. Same age, same height... Just like her and Br-. 

She made a beeline for her seat, reached up, and fiddled with the air vent until it blew directly in her face. 

***

It was inconvenient, this side trip to see her parents, but it had been a while. They Skyped - more frequent than usual, actually: ever since she told them she would be going abroad to work in a few months for at least a year. 

She set her modest Honda CRV on cruise and indulged in what she could only call ‘deferred analysis.’ The past 48 hours had left her with a ton of shit to process. 

She could only speculate as to the nature of Franky’s childhood trauma, but she was certain her own history made a perfect foil. 

Her parents were both professionals: her father, an OB/GYN, and her mother had taught at economics at the university. Until of late, that is. She’d retired, only to take up a guidance role at a local college. Bridget burst with hope for the young people who’d be lucky enough to encounter her care.

Her two older siblings, too, had good careers. Ian was recently made a judge. Alison was a-work-from-home-architect/mom. They’d both made settling down look pretty easy. A sort of fairy-tale ‘life-by-the-numbers’.

Her younger brother, Sebastian, though…. After a concentrated period of ‘playing the game’ and working hard as a software engineer, he retired. At age 38. 

Bridget was proud of him – for fulfilling his goal, yes, but also, for having a vision of his own and the determination to follow through, naysayers be damned. He and his wife didn’t seem ‘rich’ – they’d embraced minimalism. For them, it was like money was a conduit to ‘peace of mind’. Enough of it, and you could reclaim your time.

His choices intrigued her. Up until now, Seb was the most interesting person she knew. 

***

When Bridget arrived ‘home, sweet home’, she sat in the car an extra minute or two. Too easy, she thought, to take ALL this for granted.

It was quiet when she entered the house but she was 99.9% sure where she’d find her father, so she bounded up the stairs. The door to his study was open. She flopped into the tub chair by his desk. “Hi daddy!”

“Bridget Louise!” She must have startled him slightly. He looked older than last she saw him. (We all are, she thought wryly.) 

He got up and gave her a bear hug. 

She heard her mother clip-clopping from down the hallway (from HER study, no doubt). 

“Grace! Look who’s arrived?!” Her father beamed at her and rubbed her back. Her father was the more affectionate of the two. She could count on his calm, unconditional acceptance, always:, no matter who, where, what, why, and how.

“Welcome home!” Her mother gave her two kisses - one on each check, then added a third: “For good measure,” she said, like she always did. Bridget thought her mother looked stunning. As always, her beauty and regal bearing were a showcase for what lay beneath.

Bridget had never experienced a moment of doubt as to whether she was loveable, valuable, intelligent enough, or ‘good’. Besides which, the love between her parents was palpable, like a third entity. And they were adoring parents. All her life, at every turn, she had been treated consistently with dignity, respect and uncompromising, unconditional, immense love.

She asked herself many times what was holding her back from so richly sharing her life. Although - to a large extent, the answer was obvious: she hadn’t met anyone she wanted to be with that badly. 

***

Brianna slept and slept. She was glad to be home where she had access to all her stuff without having to root through stupid suitcases. Tomorrow morning, she could choose any dress she wanted. Her closet was full of them. 

She started dressing up for work when took the job at Legal Aid. Casual was perfectly acceptable, but she liked to feel pretty. It seems to have paid off: Franky had finally noticed her - and said she was beautiful. She knew she meant it too. 

But Franky wasn’t Franky this trip. It was like someone had gone in and moderated a switch: she was still Franky, but toned down. Calmer. Sweeter.

***

Franky was tired when she arrived home. She procrastinated going to bed, though; afraid, as usual, of where the night time would take her.


	11. Chapter 11

Bridget left to return to Melbourne early Sunday morning, well before the birds warmed up their waking songs. She had a long drive ahead.

She had spent yesterday in Kiama with an old friend. They walked around, gaping (no other word for it) at the beautiful scenery – the famous blowhole. The setting was conducive to ‘real talk’. Her friend had asked how she handles the stress of her job, and if she doesn’t get tired of it? 

Well, yes, she did get tired, but she wasn’t tired of ‘it’. This was her profession. She loved it, was good at it. She’d earned a reputation. A reputation that, evidently, extended beyond national borders.

Over dinner last night she had filled her parents in on all the details regarding her plans to work abroad. One of her Ph.D uni mates emailed her a while ago, asking if she’d review a proposal for him. It turned out that Elliott was now a big-wig at the University of Copenhagen. He was trying to secure funding for a project he hoped to lead.

The topic drew her in pretty deep: recidivism with an emphasis on psychological resilience. She gave it more than a cursory review: she threw in some observations of her own, suggested ’devil’s advocate’ literature, and gave him her best professional opinion.

Once he secured funding, he emailed her with a special thanks – and with a special invitation to join his team. He practically begged her.

The way things were going at Wentworth, she had no problem saying yes. In fact, she tried to say ‘yes’ to whatever next thing life threw in her path. She was lucky to have that confidence, that everything would work out in its own way.

So, currently, she was waiting to get a work visa in her hands and move, for the short-term at least, to Denmark.

***

Being back in her routine felt good to Franky. That stupid conference had fucked her up in multiple ways. 

For one, she had surreptitiously given that journalist fuck-head a platform to record her. She was more than pissed, AND majorly creeped out that he had followed her to Sydney. 

This dickwad had been following her around, wanting her ‘story.’ She vowed she wouldn’t sell out, no matter how squeezed she felt for cash. There would be no exclusive, no book, no ‘Franky Doyle’ the movie. Why couldn't he get it through his thick skull that EVERY SINGLE DAY she wished that her life wouldn’t make a ‘good’ story? He and all his ilk were scum: this was in their, not her, best interest. Her moral failings – the past, present, and - most-probably, future - were not for public display anymore. 

Second, there was that ‘Balance – Before Burn-Out’, or some such vomity-titled workshop, where the ‘balance’ exercise she did left her all lop-sided. The assessment revealed what she had begun to suspect: that the vast majority of her time and energy went to ‘maintaining a livelihood’. On the play and joy side, hardly a blip. 

Brianna was right. She had become the opposite of ‘fun’ – although, deep down, she wasn’t sure if that had ever been her real self? When had she ever truly enjoyed a moment?

Speaking of which, and thirdly, there was the ‘eminent’ Dr. Westfall (so introduced for at her keynote address). An address that moved Franky in such a way that she was compelled to talk to her. She tried to cover her need with her usual bluster and flair; but something in her demanded that she not let this woman go – and later – to her surprise – ask her for help. And so this insightful, kind, generous woman had become her personal coach. Without doubt, it was her help and support that got her through the terrifying task Fessler had assigned her. 

Was it weird that she kind of thought of herself as this woman's friend? That she desperately wanted to be this woman’s friend? Was it weird that all she thought of, night and day, was how good it felt to be with her?

Though it pulsed now like a loss in her soul, the joyous reprieve she spent with this remarkable (stunningly gorgeous) woman was a one-off. A ray of light and beauty that pushed away some of her self-hate. She’d said she did good, was proud of her. It wasn’t fake – Franky could see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. Franky would be grateful for that for the rest of her life. 

It gave her hope, that someday, somehow, her world would be better.

But what if…?

Nah, Bridget wouldn’t want to have to bother with her again. What the heck would she have to gain? What’d be in it for her?

So when Stephanie (or Stevie??) came into the coffee shop with her usual perky flirtations, Franky bit. She used her to attempt to fuck the agitation out of her body and mind. Like always, it was by her rulebook and she was in complete control.

***

Bridget wiped out the jacuzzi – light dust from disuse. She turned the water to scalding and stirred in some Epsom salts. She threw in a bath bomb. 

Submersed, she tried to focus the jets on the areas that needed it most. She was so tense lately. The roar and pulse of swishing water soothed her. 

She breathed out deeply. When she inhaled she deliberately registered the steamy bergamot scent. She focused on the bodily pleasure of being enveloped in liquid heat.

As her body and mind relaxed, she imagined her life in Denmark. She saw herself sitting a sidewalk café. She was laughing – she was light and happy. No, she was delighted! Beaming across the table from her was the woman she couldn’t stop thinking about.

She truly didn't know if she could go on ignoring her want and her need. It was tiring. It was lonely. 

So lonely she picked up her phone: “Miss our chats and our laughs. You doing okay? G.”

***  
Despite her recent fuck, Franky couldn't shake it. It was all-consuming. But what could she do with this? Her immense attraction to Bridget Westfall AND the bottomless pit of her own lack of worth. 

Ding! Her phone lit up. A text. 

She grabbed the phone and read it. 

She danced around the room. She threw back her head and howled. 

She waited a beat. Her fingers flew over the keys: “Gidge! Long time no see. Was just thinking of you… Taking Tess to the park on Sat. Up for flying (a kite)?”


	12. Chapter 12

Saturday morning, Bridget awoke to blue skies and light winds.

***

Franky enjoyed not having to be up at the crack of dawn. She whipped up some cranberry scones. She packed some water, and the juice boxes she’d refrigerated last night. 

Tess was in the back seat of Franky’s old Honda Civic. Franky could actually see out the windshield now. When she returned from Sydney it was nothing but geo-cities of spider cracks. Which set her back significantly.

Tess was chatting up a storm about a new dog she met, named Bo-Bo, and she was wondering if maybe they’d see him in the park today and maybe Bo-Bo would lick her hand again because it was funny and it tickled and she thought he looked like a big teddy bear and she wondered if Bo-Bo might like to watch her fly her kite. 

“We probably won’t see Bo-Bo. We’re going to a different park, a park close to my new friend Gidget’s house.” 

Tess giggled. “That’s a funny name.” 

Franky chuckled. “Her real name is Bridget. If you want a new nickname, we could call her Spunky. Should we call her Spunky?” 

“Only if she IS like, REALLY spunky!”

She is, Franky thought. Oh, she really is.

According to the GPS on her phone, Bridget’s house should be right about… here. Franky gawked around nearly as much as Tess did. This was a strange world of ‘designer’ houses, pristine lawns, stone-blocked driveways and fancy cars.

Tess looked around. “Are we at the park?” she asked.

Number 2726 was distinct. It was smaller than the others, but elegant. It looked like Gidget would live here. (Franky would learn later that it was her architect-sister’s plan and that she’d had it custom-built. Franky wasn’t sure what ‘custom-built’ meant but she knew fancy when she saw it.)

Bridget’s vehicle was not in the driveway, so Franky pulled in. She tried to guess what outrageously expensive vehicle someone with Bridget’s taste would drive. A hot car… for a hot girl? Maybe she’d get a sneak a peek into the garage.

Franky was trying to help Tess out of the awkward car seat. 

Bridget came out the side door to greet them. 

“Gidge!!” Franky greeted. Unfortunately, she stood up too fast and gave her head a good whomp! 

It didn’t affect her enthusiasm, though. She couldn't hold back from bringing her in for a one-armed hug. 

Bridget kissed her cheek. She was SO HAPPY to see Franky! She had to pull her eyes away to take in Tess.

Tess was ever polite. She waited for Franky to introduce her, like she had practiced at pre-school. It cracked Franky up. 

“Gidge, this is my Tess.” 

Bridget crouched and offered her hand. Tess took it, shyly. “I’m really glad to meet you, Tess. I’m Bridget.”

Tess darted a look at Franky. “I thought you said her name was Widget?” 

Franky and Bridget burst out laughing. Tess looked slightly offended. “That’s what you said!”

“Remember I told you that’s MY special name for her? She has another name, a real one.”

“Oh yeah!” Tess visibly brightened. “Spunky!” 

They laughed even harder.

***  
The day was perfect. Warm sun-kisses lavished upturned faces. Moments of true wonder (look at that soar – you’re doing it!) and joy (every time Bridget looked at Franky or felt her presence, the brush of a hand). 

Franky felt like she was going to burst. Her two favourite people...

Franky was really good with the kite, and extremely patient with Tess. Franky was telling Tess (and Gidget – really, Gidget) about the time she did this with her father. This one time - just once – when he’d shown up out of nowhere. (Keeping hope alive, thought Bridget.)

“It was a pretty shitty thing to do-“ Franky accounted for Tess and began to pull Bridget aside. 

“Franky says bad words,” Tess told Bridget.

Bridget tried to keep a straight face: “I know, sweetheart. But she’s our Franky, and we like her just the way she is.”

Franky didn’t feel like completing the shitty story, and Bridget didn’t need her to: experience painted the picture.

Resilience, Bridget thought again as she took in Franky’s contagious vibrancy. Her black hair flowed freely in the wind. She rocked jeans-and-layered-shirts. Her gorgeous green eyes were bright and clear. 

Franky caught Bridget looking at her and gave her a huge smile. 

***

On Monday, Bridget entered her office, right on time, as usual. She flung her clear plastic bag on a chair. For a moment she imagined Franky Doyle in one of the green chairs, a chained tiger. 

She had experienced transference – she couldn’t count the number of clients who told her they were in love with her. But not counter-transference. Never had she been tempted by romantic feelings. 

As much as she could have professionally helped an incarcerated Franky Doyle, she was grateful, again(!), that she wasn’t her client.

Though that didn’t help her much throughout the day. Wentworth was now infused with Franky. She greeted ‘the girls’ (especially Boomer, Liz and Allie) with a warmer hello than usual. She’d taken a moment to appreciate the vastness of the kitchen where Franky essentially ‘turned water into wine’; the weight-lifting area meant olive-toned muscles; the library: an extra-ordinary mind determined to reach lofty goals…. 

Near 10 am, Bridget was catching up on some reports. She looked up to find Linda Miles at her door. Linda stood there in her own sleepy way. She drawled, “Governor wants to see you. She’ll want to know why you didn’t respond to the note.” She gathered enough energy to point to the yellow sticky on the door. It read: “Ms. Westfall, please see me.”

About three minutes later, Linda Miles made the announcement at Vera’s door. “Dr. Westfall here for you, Governor.” 

“Send her in.”

Bridget breezed in. “Good morning, Vera! Good news, I hope?”

Vera put down the papers she’d been shuffling around. She gave Bridget her full attention. Her face was etched with sympathy. 

She folded her hands on her desk. “I think you should sit down, Bridget. I have something to talk to you about.”

Bridget remained standing. “I hope everything’s all right!” 

To Bridget’s surprise, Vera suddenly wailed: “Oh Bridget, this is awful! I don’t want to do this! But I can’t live with myself if I don’t…. I need to tell you something. Something awful!!”

“It’s okay, Vera. It’s okay,” Bridget soothed.

In a seeming non sequitur she offered: “You know, I’d like to believe it’s possible, but I don’t really believe that people can change.” 

Bridget knew some of Vera’s history with her mother – and with Joan Ferguson: two monsters whose ambition was to crush Vera’s ego.

“And I know that you became friends with Franky Doyle at the conference and that you’ve seen her here…”

WTF???? Bridget thought. Is she fuckin' stalking me?!

“It’s that… well, I don’t know how to say this. I don’t WANT to say this! But I suspect…” she paused, as if giving this one final consideration. Having tallied the risk, she surged on: “…that Franky Doyle killed someone.”

Bridget was momentarily aghast. “That’s a serious charge, Vera! I don’t think -"

Vera cut her short. Her words came out more easily now, but in a rush: “You remember that before Ferguson, the governor was Meg Jackson, Mr. Jackson’s wife?” 

Yes, Bridget knew that.

“There was a… there was a prison riot and Meg Jackson was found in an upper hallway with a shiv to her chest. Dead. Murdered.” 

Vera was staring at her.

Bridget didn’t say anything. 

“I just wonder sometimes…. I mean, there’s just something about the situation that doesn’t sit right with me. Jaqs Holt was blamed for it, but… It’s just something I can’t put my finger on.” She peeked quickly at Bridget, as if to gauge whether she needed to go on. “After that Doyle was different around Mr. Jackson: more subdued, nicer - entirely out of character.”

Bridget looked at her directly and said with a calm voice: “Maybe you misjudged her? Maybe that is her real character and she was just responding to Mr. Jackson’s kindness. You know what she said in the seminar, about people caring. Maybe she sensed that he cared and she respected him? You can’t say -”

Vera’s face was filled with anguish: “But what if I’m right?”

“Vera!” Bridget looked away and blew a raspberry. She strode to the window and looked out, then paced back. She swivelled to face Vera head-on across the width of the desk. “What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“I know, I know…. I just don’t want you to get hurt.” She looked as if she were about to cry: “I really, really care about you, Bridget.” 

She rose, quickly, from her desk, turned the corner, and made a beeline for Bridget, hands extended, pleading. “Maybe I shouldn’t have….” 

“No. You shouldn’t have,” Bridget told her. She turned on heel and left the Governor’s office. She closed the door firmly behind her.

***

By the end of the week, Bridget was fed up and exhausted. This whole fuckin’ week was a pressure-cooker.  


Yesterday, Ferguson tried to entrap her with more determination (and malice) than usual: ‘What have you never told your parents?’ ‘Have you ever been raped?’

And Vera’s bullshit??

She needed to calm down. She headed out for a walk. She needed air and exercise. 

She refused to let gossip and speculation do its corroding work. She tried not to be angry with Vera. Her own experience with Franky Doyle had been nothing but DELIGHTFUL. When, prior to that conference, had she last been delighted?! 

The problem with Vera, she thought… the problem with Vera is herself. Seeing Franky Doyle enjoying her freedom had to have an emotional affect. She was her jailor, for Christ’s sake. She locked her behind fuckin’ bars every night and controlled every movement throughout the day. It had to be jarring. 

And then there was all that unresolved business – with Ferguson accusing her of mercy-killing. And now, her over-protectiveness? 

She had no idea how Vera knew that she had been with Franky last Saturday, and to tell the truth, she didn’t really care. It wasn’t important, in the larger scale. 

What a fuckin’ mess.


	13. Chapter 13

It was a Wednesday when Bridget found a card in her mailbox. It distinguished itself from the other envelopes by way of the hand-printed address. 

It was so rare to get a personalized item these days – she had forgotten what the anticipation felt like, the curiosity. She turned it over and back again. There was no return address, but the post-mark was local. It was stamped only yesterday. She let a silly grin take over her practiced neutral expression. 

She was nearly in her house when she heard Mrs. Rutledge, from next door, ya-hooing her over, her voice high and shrill. Bridget opened her door and placed the mail on the console table. She didn’t see the square envelope fall behind the console.

Once Mrs. Rutledge was sorted (light bulb emergency) and she managed to get away, she headed back to her house. That had been an experience: climbing a ladder in four-inch heels and a tight skirt. But it felt really good to do something kind and practical. Mrs. Rutledge’d ‘paid’ her with a batch of pumpkin-spice muffins. She’d take them to work tomorrow, share the homemade bounty. 

She was in her bedroom, forcing herself to change her clothes first, pace herself… – but she couldn’t wait. Half-dressed, she flew to the console. But she didn’t see - couldn’t find - a hand-written envelope anywhere in the stack of mail. Surely she hadn’t dreamt it? 

She ended up moving the heavy console, shimming it out from the wall. The edge scraped her bare midriff. Once the back of the console was exposed, she saw it.

She captured it. The console remained askew in the partially-ransacked entryway, her skirt still on, and bra, but no top.

She didn’t even consider how silly this all must look. She ran her fingertips over the slightly-raised texture of the envelope. Just then she realized it could be a wedding invitation – she’d plenty of those over the years; a baby announcement (ditto); a retirement party, birthday, gender-reveal, bar mitzva, bat mitzva, christening (ditto, ditto, ditto…). 

Her fingers shook a little as she pulled out the card.

The pure white card was imprinted with a beautiful cherry blossom. It looked like a tattoo.

She opened the card and read: 

Dear Gidge,  
I don’t know how to do this. I never had a friendship like this before: one that makes me calm and I can just be me. I don’t care where or how, but I'd like to hang out with you again. Maybe I could cook for you Saturday evening coming? Please say yes.

Bridget kissed the the card and danced around. She waltzed into her study and found her own box of linen stationary. Everything else faded into the background. She took out a crisp, textured sheet and wrote:

With pleasure. Gidge

She examined the tattoo card again. It didn’t have a signature. It thrilled her – these little indications of Franky’s understanding, and, of her uniqueness. 

As she sealed the envelope, she realized she did not have Franky’s address. This little break back to reality caused her pause. She had better think long and hard about what she was doing. This wasn’t just about her. She couldn’t have her name added to Franky’s long list of betrayals.

***

It wasn’t hard to track down Franky’s address. Wondering where she lived was something Bridget had decidedly NOT given herself permission to do before now.

If she understood correctly, she lived above the Elephant’s Web. It wasn’t late, so she took a drive over. 

The café was crowded, even at what should be the dinner hour. She didn’t expect to see Franky. In fact, she didn’t want to see Franky. She was here to get her address. She could chance a guess, but Saturday was a tight deadline and she wanted to make certain her response would arrive in the correct box. 

When a counter opened up, she ordered a decaf latte. A lot of customers were leaving with eat-treats. The cinnamon buns and cranberry scones seemed to have been extra popular today.

When her name was called, she stepped forward to claim her beverage. 

“Pardon me…” She squinted at the name tag: “Mylissa.” She asked if this was where Franky Doyle worked. Mylissa appeared to be neither surprised, nor all that interested, in the question. She took a deep sigh, as if agreeing to play along. “Yeah. You want her?”

“Is she here?” Bridget’s voice rose to an unfamiliar arc.

The girl blinked at her. So that’s a no, thought Bridget. 

She stuck her neck out: “She lives upstairs, doesn’t she?”

Mylissa suddenly snapped out of her stupor and (essentially) growled: “Whaddya want ‘er for? If you’re one of those parole people or whatever, fuck off. She’s free and clear!” 

Bridget was secretly pleased with this display of loyalty.

“No, no, no. Nothing like that.” The words tumbled out of Bridget’s mouth. 

Mylissa wasn’t done defending her friend. She pointed to the tip jar. “Works harder than anybody I know.” 

Bridget ferried around her wallet, and shoved a large bill into the tip jar. She lifted her latte to the over-protective Mylissa. “Ta!”

Bridget returned to her house. She wrote Franky’s address on the linen envelope in beautiful cursive. She drove directly to the central mail-sorting station and dropped it into the box labelled Local Mail Only.  
***  


The next afternoon, Franky found a linen-like envelope in her mailbox. She grinned, did a fist pump, and ran upstairs.


	14. Chapter 14

On Saturday morning, Bridget busied herself with the washing. Scrubbed the bathroom. Tried to reinforce a loose button on one of her favourite shirts (hopeless). Tidied up her study. She tried to go over her list of things to do before Denmark but she found it difficult to concentrate.

Around 2 pm she sent Franky a text: “What time do you want me?”

Franky dinged back immediately: “Any time.”

“Seriously. Like now?” 

“Seriously, now - if you want.” 

Franky threw her phone down and did a seriously wicked happy dance.

***  
Bridget got herself cleaned up and drove her white CRV to Franky’s street. She found parking more easily than she anticipated. This was a stroke of luck on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

When Franky opened the door, her mouth fell agape. It hadn’t been long, but she was startled by the clarity with which she saw Bridget. She was everything – everything that Franky craved.

Bridget stood still, looking back at Franky with a sheepish, shy grin. She bowed her head. She held the most-perfect bouquet of flowers behind her back.

“Uh,” She laughed nervously, “Are you going to let me in?” 

Franky’s reverie broke and she sprang to immediate action. “Oh, of course, of course. Come in. I have… I just... Thank you for coming.” 

Bridget stepped forward and placed a deliberate kiss on Franky’s cheek: “These are for you, Franky Doyle.”

Never before, not once, had Franky Doyle received flowers. She didn’t know what the heck it meant in this particular context. It reminded her she was out of her depth. Maybe the flowers were another mystery of class. No matter. Her eyes filled with tears, which she shuffed away with her sleeve, hoping Bridget hadn't seen them. 

***  
Franky had wanted to have everything done by the time Bridget arrived so that she could just sit back and take her in. But she had just shortly returned from the shops and still had a few things to put away. But she didn’t mind the trade off - Bridget, here - with her - even if she’d have to multitask.

Franky got Bridget a glass of wine and their happy exchanges filled the small living room. At times Franky just took in the fact that she was hearing Bridget Westfall’s gorgeous voice in her apartment. The rain slashed with vengeance at the living room window. The little apartment cocooned them from the menacing outer world. 

“I’ll be just ten more minutes, Gidge, I promise.”

Comparatively, Bridget’s ‘prep’, even for company, was ordering from a menu and setting the table. It looked like Franky was going through tremendous effort for her here. 

“Oh Franky! I feel silly to have imposed. Of course - urgh, I didn’t mean to be so selfish.” 

Franky couldn’t help but look her up and down, appraising her wholly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I want you here.”

***  
Franky did not particularly like how her kitchen looked just now. Foodstuffs, pots, pans, spices, instruments and utensils made the space look even more cramped than usual. Franky contrasted this with the perfect chef’s kitchen she saw that day at Bridget’s house. 

“Ya didn’t bring your stove over, did ya Gidge?” she called out.

Bridget was just returning from the washroom, and she wasn’t sure what she heard. She was ever-curious, and, strangely it LITERALLY pained her that Franky said something she didn’t hear. She didn’t want to miss a single Frankyism. It was such a fuckin’ relief not to be able to predict the next word in a conversation, or worse, its entire trajectory. 

“What did you say you want me to bring?” She entered the small kitchen. 

“I heard someone confess that they don’t use their stove much. So I thought maybe y’d bring it over. Did ya?”

“Whell, that would be quite a feat for my little car. But we must keep in mind that if the stove can’t come to the chef, the chef come to the stove, no?” 

Franky put down a bowl and rushed to the window. “Speaking of cars, Gidge… I’m going to test my spidey senses and see if I can pick out which vehicle belongs to you. If I get it right (she squiggled her eyebrows playfully, tongue poked through) “you have to cook next time for me.” 

“Oh dear! And if you get it wrong?” Bridget teased.

“Hmmm.” Franky smirked, her eyes glittering. “I guess that’s up to you.”

Bridget felt a flush rise to her skin. Franky took it in and thought, My God – you are beautiful!

Bridget teased: “How do I know you haven’t peeked already? Maybe you watched me come in…”

“Nah, Gidge. Ya gotta trust me!”

She turned and took a long look at Bridget. The question, though loaded, was uttered softly: “Do ya trust me?”  


They looked deeply into each other’s eyes. No words were needed.

Franky took a long look out the window. Her eyes travelled over a BMW convertible. Expensive, sophisticated… but too showy. A Volvo station wagon: too square. A VW Beetle: too cutesy. The motorbike – in her dreams! The Honda CRV… 

It’s the white Honda, Gidge?!” She guessed/asked.

“I don’t know, Franky: does it check all the boxes?”

Franky thought back to their Saturday afternoon at the park: how easy it was to be around Gidge, how down-to-earth she was, so modest and genuine. 

Franky reviewed aloud the factors that made up her assessment: “well-designed; tasteful, but not showy; pleasing to the eye; quality; reliable....” 

She turned to Bridget in gleeful satisfaction: “Yup, this clean white CRV here looks pretty spunky to me!” 

Bridget’s whole being engaged in wonderful laughter.

***  
Bridget relaxed against the couch, sipping her wine. Her soul – way, way deep – that part she rarely shared with anyone, even her family - hummed with profound contentment. 

The room - the whole of the apartment - wasn’t much to look at. Franky seemed to be a minimalist, which made sense to Bridget. Prison probably clarified stuff like that: what was really of value…

Franky took a moment to fiddle with something. The room filled with music. 

You could be my unintended  
Choice to live my life extended  
You could be the one I'll always love  
You could be the one who listens  
To my deepest inquisitions  
You could be the one I'll always love  
I'll be there as soon as I can  
But I'm busy mending broken  
Pieces of the life I had before  
(Muse)

***  
The sky had darkened early. Franky took a final look at the table she’d set just so. She didn’t have a proper vase, but the tall drinking glass didn’t diminish the vibrancy the wild bouquet brought to the table.

For a moment, she felt ashamed of her second-hand dishes and glassware: it spoke of the shabbiness of this whole place and of her pathetic, un-together, immature life.

Bridget was amazed at the meal. The enticing aromas, the melding tastes on her tongue, the impressive presentation. She didn’t notice (or didn’t judge or didn’t care about) pre-owned plates. She savoured every bite of the lemon-rosemary roasted chicken, basmati rice and colourful veg. 

“It’s like I’m in a restaurant!” Bridget exclaimed. “How did you do this?!”

“I’ve got my ways, Gidge. Trade secrets.” Franky winked.

Bridget raised her wine glass: “To the chef of my dreams!” 

Franky clinked her glass. She was glad she wasn’t standing. Her mind struggled to process the cheer. She tried to convince herself that she was probably NOT having a heart attack. 

At one point over dinner, Franky asked, “If you had to choose to work at something else, Gidge, what would it be?”

Bridget immediately pictured a lanky, toned form in teal sweats, sprawled in a green chair. She shuddered at what that would have meant.

“I have thought about it,” she confessed. “I always wanted to be a writer.”

Franky’s eyebrows shot up and she reared back in her chair. “You’re not that journalist, guised as Gidget, are you?”

Bridget laughed until it turned into a mere chuckle. “No,” she replied. “But I do want to hear your story…” She peered deeply into Franky’s eyes and held her gaze. “All of it.” 

“You will…,” Franky responded softly, not breaking eye contact. Bridget put her hand on Franky’s knee and squeezed. It lingered there for several beats of Franky’s heart.

“I probably wouldn’t chose law, to tell you the truth.” 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Franky replied. “My father wants me to be a plumber. Never a shortage of work…” 

Franky couldn’t help but throw back her head and laugh as she watched Bridget process the unexpected. 

She tried to keep it light, but knew Bridget would ‘get it’: “He says he owes me a living….” 

She paused. She looked shy. Bridget knew she was giving her something valuable: “Although I don’t want just a living…. I want a meaningful life, worth something, you know.” Her voice decreased in confidence as if she wasn’t worthy of aiming that high.

***  
They cleared the table together. While Bridget had neither skill nor interest in the goings-on of meal prep, she was a wizard at clean-up. Franky watched in awe. “You clean up real nice, Gidge.” She winked and smirked.

Bridget gave her a silly pseudo-slap on the arm. The simple playfulness radiated a warmth Franky rarely, if ever, experienced.

Franky declared she’d be right back: she wanted to put on some clothes that didn’t smell like rosemary and onion. She went into the bedroom and changed into trackies and a tee.

Bridget was hovering by the window. When she heard Franky coming back, she turned. Franky wasn’t oblivious. Did she read Bridget’s gaze as: this woman is smoking hot? Whatever she thought Bridget was thinking, she blushed.

(Admittedly, Bridget had packed an overnight bag, though she wasn’t about to share that piece of information.) 

Franky suggested they take their dessert to the couch (crème brûlée à la chef’s torch). Franky brought over the bottle of wine that Bridget had gifted her and placed it on the stool she used as an end-table. Franky noticed that Bridget wasn’t what you would call ‘lite’ on the wine. Franky admired her composure, her ‘put-togetherness’ even as she absorbed this fact.

Bridget figured it was time. Despite the liquid courage, she was extremely nervous. She felt, to the very core of her being, the significance of this moment. She could hear her own pulse throbbing through her body.

She cleared her throat. “Um... Franky, I wanna talk to you about something, okay?” 

Frank hmmmmd, but tensed. 

“You know, at the conference, in my talk, I mentioned some new constructs around recidivism?” 

“Yeah, they’re called cinder blocks.” Franky’s eyes hardened for a fraction of a second. 

Bridget pushed on. “So there’s this project a friend of mine is working on - in Denmark. He… we did uni and interned together. He, uh…he asked me to come work with him for a year… and - I want to ask you something.”

Franky’s heart collapsed. Her vision tunnelled. She panicked. She was distraught. She thought she might hyperventilate AND throw up. 

“What the fuck, Bridget?!” 

The force of shock had Franky’s inner guardian yelling RUN! But her therapist’s voice was in there too, urging her to stay calm. Count to ten; lead with your mind; get the facts; think before you react. 

She folded her arms across her chest and nodded, go on.

Bridget laid out how the invitation unfolded and details about the proposal. It might have just been Bridget’s voice (her face, her eyes, those lips) and NOT the words she was saying (though Franky’s sharp mind kept up), but Franky couldn’t help but be drawn in.

Bridget paused for breath.

“Where did you say, again?” Franky forced herself to ask calmly (though with extreme coolness). Her emotive self had hunkered into her fortress. The fortress was protected: sturdy, well-reinforced, high-reaching and exceedingly broad.

“Copenhagen. Denmark.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve never been,” Franky said curtly.

Bridget tried to lighten things up: “You know, there’s a world happiness index and Denmark is second to the top.” 

“That’s just great, Gidget.” Franky folded her arms. Hardened, hurt eyes replaced the tenderness that Bridget had come to count on. “Why don’t’cha go be happy then, hey? If there’s nothing for ya here ‘cept losers and psychos?” 

Bridget knew exactly what was going on and why. “They think happiness comes from a strong sense of equality.” She shifted: “I’m waiting on a work visa –"

Franky jumped up and distanced herself. From across the room, she leveled her eyes with Bridget’s. She looked more sad than angry. “Why are you telling me this, Bridget? If you’re gonna go, go.”

Bridget decided to just go for it. She took a deep breath and the words poured out: “Actually, Franky, I was wondering if you would come with me?”

Franky’s jaw fell. She narrowed her eyes. What the fuck? There was nothing, absolutely nothing about Bridget Westfall that suggested duplicity. This couldn’t be some sick joke.

Bridget went to Franky, careful to respect her space. But she wanted her attention. She really wanted her to listen. “I think Fessler knew what she was doing when she sent you to that conference, Franky… Your perspective, your insights – and the way you articulate them… I know you might not want to think of it this way, but your experience is marketable.”

Franky hadn’t moved, and her posture remained defensive, but she wasn’t interrupting, so Bridget pressed on. “And I think Fessler knew that. It’s pure speculation on my part, but I think she was giving you a way out.”

Franky tutted an ‘as if’. 

But she was curious too. This 'Dr.' standing before her was exceedingly smart. She had stuffed up too many things. For her own sake she should shove aside her attitude and try to listen.

“What’d ya mean?” Her face combined sullenness, shock, anger, and grief. But she was listening. 

“You know that you might not be able to practice law…” Bridget said this gently.

Franky curled her lip. Her nonchalant shoulder shrug said: I don’t care. But her eyes betrayed her. Bridget knew it was one of her greatest fears.

“What I’m trying to get at is that you could pivot – you know? Into consulting. You get paid for what you share about your experience, your insights and perspectives – exactly what you did at the conference.”

Franky looked skeptical. She huffed, “Ya, right.”

“You have something unique, Franky, something none of us can study, or buy, or find - or..." She ran out of words: "...anything! You are invaluable. We need you to tell us: like at the conference, else we’re wasting our time – coming up with this. We try to help, but we don't know... we can't know! You know you made an impact in that room…” 

She said more softly, “Let yourself believe that.”

Franky was now expressionless. 

Bridget had more to say. “You’d be a consultant. The money’s good… not that that’s the be all and end all.” (You’d make more in an hour than you do in a day, Bridget dared not say.)

She stepped closer. “They’re giving me free housing for a year, and a food stipend…. It’s a two-bedroom place: they said I could bring someone….” 

She swallowed visibly. She bit her lip. The outline of her pitch was done.


	15. Chapter 15

Franky’s heart was thumping so loudly she couldn’t hardly fuckin’ think. Her mind was relentless. Bombastic. She couldn’t capture a single thought and make it coherent to herself. 

She needed air. Space. She turned abruptly and went into the washroom. She sat on the edge of the tub, chewing her finger. She stood before the mirror, chewing her lip. She put her hands on her head. She put her hands above her head. She paced. She turned herself about.

She thought of her life, here, without Gidge. The vision was drab, colourless…. She stood still and forced eye-contact with herself in the mirror. She thought of her recent 'theme song': ‘The world keeps turning and turning and turning and I’m not moving on’ [Lady Gaga]. She glanced at the toilet and snort-laughed. Plumbing? Or this ‘consulting’ as Gidget called it. The limitations around her legal aid, the cafe, the restaurant, the teeny apartment, the one-night stands - or Bridget?

Until she sat with Dr. Bridget Westfall at the Urban Potato, she was all forced bluster and banter and show. There… in that rinky place, the world stopped turning. There was no one else but them. It hadn't been the same - SHE hadn't been the same since.

She returned to the living room. Bridget searched her eyes. She took her hand and led her to the couch.

“I’m sorry to spring this on you, Franky, but it’s really important… I’ve made a commitment. I have to go. And when I do, I know I'm letting you down. So I thought maybe..." She caressed Franky's arm. "I'm not saying you should. I don't want to pressure you. I..."

She lifted her head high, as if for inspiration, for the right words. Or was it resignation? Her on-the-spot moment of contemplation was quickly over, though she was still without the exact words to say what she wanted to say. So she spoke her truth: “I don’t want this to end.”

Franky was baffled. All the shitty things she had done in her life were pressing down on her, crushing her. She could hardly breath for the enormity of self-doubt and self-recriminations. She was so sick of herself. She remembered waking in Bridget’s hotel room, the stupendous miracle of full night’s rest, a peace and calm she didn't even know existed. 

She got up and paced. She stopped and faced Bridget: “I’m not a good person.”

It broke Bridget’s heart. 

She looked out the window, then back. “I’m a felon.” She said this with sad conviction. “I can’t do anything or go anywhere. I’m condemned to live with my fuck-ups: that’s just how it is.”

Bridget watched Franky’s eyes well with tears. Never had she seen such an honest expression of utter remorse.

She had one final card to play. “That’s one of the most amazing things about this, Franky. It doesn’t matter that you’re a felon.” She smiled at the irony: “Actually, it’s because you had a felony that you’re invited. You have special skills-"

Franky had been focusing on the floor, but her head jerked up. 

“I asked. It’s already been sorted. Elliott can get you the visa you need because – like I said – you have something that no one else has – 'a unique skill' and he’s enough of a big-wig to make it happen.

I promise! You’d be clear. It can be all sorted.”

Franky managed a sad, tender smile. Her small chuckle was blended with tears: “So I’m one of a kind?”

Bridget melted. She had never felt such love for someone. She was full of longing - for Franky - to live free and clear. With or without her. She deserved good things, so much better. If only she could give her the peace she deserved, just package it up and hand it to her. Instead she gave herself: she enveloped Franky, completely embraced her while offering all she was and had.

“None of that is your fault, Franky. You played the hand you were dealt.

But that can change. We can change it, sweetheart, together!”

Franky couldn't take it anymore. She desperately wanted to buck up. She wanted to be stronger than this, but she needed to know something, needed to ask. She drew back so she could look into the bluest of blue. Though Bridget loosened her hold on her, she didn’t let go. “You pity me because I’m pathetic and my life is pathetic.”

“No,” Bridget whispered. She tightened her grip. “It’s nothing like that.” 

Her body, her physical touch, couldn’t give Franky enough comfort and assurance. She hugged and squeezed and rubbed her back, her arm. She just had to touch her. Had to.

She had a confession. Franky should know this: “I rarely want something, Franky. I try not to want...try not to expect or strive or grab... But I want this. For you, yeah. But you have to believe me, I want it for me.” Her voice broke. She buried her face in Franky's chest. Franky heard a muffled: “I really want it for me.”

She recovered herself and slightly snorted. “It’s Denmark for Christ’s sake – happy because equal… Maybe it's right there and we just have to take it?” 

Franky managed a snotty laugh. She stepped back and wiped her nose on her sleeve, all laugh-crying.

Bridget was laugh-crying now too. “I don’t want to pressure you, darling. You need to make the choice yourself, for yourself. But I need you to know that I have your back. Okay?" The depth of love she felt shocked her. 

She didn’t know if she should say it, so she only half-whispered it, barely a breath: “I think I’m in love with you.”

All Franky did was nod. 

Then she breathed out audibly, a small ‘huh’ snuff. She searched Bridget’s eyes, her face. Her green eyes lingered on perfect, pink lips. Her eyes travelled that course again: blue eyes to pink lips. The ‘wistfulness’ she perceived in the hotel room clicked. It was that look that had first squeezed her heart with all those unnamed and unfamiliar feelings. 

Bridget placed her arms around Franky’s neck. Franky’s hands naturally found Bridget’s hips. They were drawn there of their own accord, as if that had been their destination from forever. 

They silently peered into each other’s souls. 

Franky told her quietly: “I wanted you so badly. But I didn’t think I had a chance with you. I thought maybe we could at least be friends and maybe, if I could only be around you, it would be enough.” 

Bridget kept one hand around Franky’s shoulder, cradling it, while she wiped the tears from Franky’s cheeks with the other. Her hand stayed there, cupped around Franky’s face, caressing it. She ran her fingers through Franky's hair.

“We haven’t even kissed yet,” Franky murmured. 

“That can be arranged,” Bridget answered half-crying, half-laughing. 

Her eyes were so perfectly blue… This beautiful, beautiful, perfect woman is in my arms… Franky tried to focus. To her relief, her wit snapped back, if only momentarily: “Though we have slept together…” she managed to tease.

Bridget stepped back without conceding any closeness. She never, ever would let go. She caressed Franky’s face with the back of her hand. She traced her fingers down to her chin, ran her thumb over her lip. Then lifted her chin. “It felt pretty right, ya? You falling asleep on my bed?”

“Yeah,” Franky breathed out. “Yeah, that was something.”

“I know you’d miss Tess.” They were swaying back and forth now: just the two of them in the whole universe.

Franky nodded. She leaned her forehead into Bridget’s. Bridget mimicked it. The depth of her feelings – she couldn’t fathom them. She just had to let them be.

They stepped apart and gazed at each other with exquisite tenderness. Their lips came together of their own accord. It was all either of them ever really wanted.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to your comments! Here is a final chapter, written SOLELY by CongratulationsBaby. I greatly admire and love every single one of her works, so, with trepidation, I asked if she would finish this off. She graciously accepted, much to my pleasure (and yours, I am sure). Warning: It's hot, baby, it's smokin' hot!

Their first kiss, made all the sweeter from the anticipation, the waiting, the _wanting,_ was a release like no other.

As their lips crashed together, Franky was sure that she could lose herself from this life in the soft embrace of Bridget Westfall and in that revelation she felt wonderment, relief, and something else that she couldn’t quite put her finger on but so desperately wanted to name. It was this thought that suddenly pulled her back out of the kiss, causing the other woman to softly protest her disappointment.

But she had to know.

“Is this what love is?” Franky asked brokenly, as she felt a solemn tear slip down her cheek. Her hands gripped Bridget’s waist, clinging to her like she was out to sea and Bridget was her only lifeline, surrounding her, bringing her home.

“Oh, baby,” Bridget responded, tears spilling from her own glittering blue eyes, as she tenderly cradled Franky’s face, “ _yes._ ”

Franky expected the affirmation to be a key to the cage she was trapped in. She expected Bridget to turn it gently, cautiously opening the door and coaxing the frightened women within. Instead, Bridget’s words wrapped around the bars, firmly cleaving them apart, and Franky roared to life, pushing out of the cage, wings spread as she soared to new heights. Where before there was darkness, a hopeless future of dead-end jobs and bills, paying to live, now there was Bridget and only Bridget.

With a shuddering breath and surrendering herself fully, Franky surged forward and captured Bridget’s lips once again. She was no stranger to kissing, or to sex as an act of release, but this _intimacy_ that Bridget had just pulled from her was new and overwhelming and so Franky let Bridget take the lead.

And where Bridget led, she would gladly follow.

Bridget’s hands held Franky’s head more firmly now, her hands snaking back and tugging at her hair, pulling a ragged sigh from Franky’s lips. She angled her own head for better access, her tongue lightly tracing, seeking permission, before darting in and being met eagerly.

Bridget’s own skill came not from a slew of lovers, though she had of course had her fair share of tentative commitments, but instead from a natural instinct, _a soul connection,_ she felt with Franky. Bridget didn’t realise until she met this cheeky, mysterious, and vulnerable woman, just what she had been missing in her life.

Franky moaned as Bridget changed the angle of the kiss once more, drawing her in deeper, and her hands now ran up under Bridget’s shirt in a desperate need to feel her soft skin. Bridget’s own hands travelled down Franky’s sides, planting firmly on her arse and pulling her flush, hips brushing together. 

Franky was on fire now, caught in the inferno that was Bridget _fucking_ Westfall, as her fingers lightly traced indiscernible patterns on Bridget’s back. Their kisses were heavy but slow, both in silent agreement that it was a marathon, not a race. Franky chased Bridget’s tongue every time it left her, drawing soft sighs from the other woman. Bridget’s hands had landed squarely on Franky’s hips in the meantime, tugging at them rhythmically to press against her, as if she didn’t dare let go for fear of Franky disappearing before her eyes.

Bridget pulled back an inch and could feel that very fire Franky was caught up in as her eyes, ablaze with desire, watched her cautiously. There was no fear, no defeat anymore, not now that Bridget had released the beautiful phoenix, and instead Bridget could see a future, _full_ of possibilities, reflected in her eyes. She could see herself, lips swollen and eyes hooded, staring back at her.

With a sharp shove, Bridget guided Franky over to the couch, pushing her down and straddling her slowly, making sure not to sink her full weight on her. She was already on the edge, and the friction from Franky’s thighs might just finish her before she’d even started. Franky seemingly understood and held Bridget securely in place, though she couldn’t help but instinctively rock her hips forward when Bridget ducked down and captured her lips once more.

Bridget pulled away and her mouth slowly caressed Franky’s cheek, her ear, and down her neck. Franky let out a breathy “ _fuck”_ as she did so and angled her head to give Bridget better access. Bridget smiled against the sensitive skin, her tongue darting out to trace patterns only she knew. Franky’s hands kneaded at her hips, her leg every so often lifting up and brushing against Bridget’s centre, making her breath hitch at the contact.

Franky shifted her attention to Bridget’s top and started to tug at it, pulling it up and revealing her bare stomach. Bridget took the cue and lifted herself away from Franky, pulling it hastily over her head and dropping it onto the floor behind her. Franky’s eyes traced the skin now on show, ready to be kissed, caressed, loved. Every blemish was open to her and she took no time at all in tracing her own tongue across them. Bridget moaned, her hands clasping the back of Franky’s head and holding it firmly against her, encouraging her.

_“Yes, baby,”_ Bridget gasped at a particularly sensitive spot, guiding Franky’s attention back to it as she let herself finally fall against Franky’s lap. The friction against her was more than enough and she started to move in earnest. Franky latched onto Bridget’s chest as she did so, her hands fumbling behind to unhook her bra. When it fell away, Franky turned her attention to each breast equally, capturing first her left and then her right nipple in her mouth, tongue circling each one in time with Bridget’s gentle rocking.

She was skilled, Bridget never had a doubt that she would be, but the gentleness and _reverence_ of Franky’s actions took her by surprise. Franky was giving herself wholly to her, likely the first time she had ever done so, and Bridget knew that she wanted this to last beyond a quick fuck on the couch. With that in mind, she stilled her movements and Franky looked up, confused and sluggish, waiting.

“Bedroom,” was all Bridget uttered as she stumbled up from Franky’s lap, her body already craving her in ways she couldn’t rationalise, didn’t _want_ to rationalise. Franky took a moment to collect herself, still befuddled that this woman wanted _her,_ before standing up on shaky legs and following Bridget down the hallway.

When they reached the bedroom, Bridget wasted no time in turning around and capturing her in a kiss once more, this time her hands hurriedly divesting Franky of her clothes. Franky helped, tugging at her shirt and pulling it over her head. Next thing she knew, her trousers were skillfully pulled down her legs and she completed the action by kicking them off, encouraging Bridget to do the same. Bridget once again took the lead and Franky was grateful because her mind had completely switched off by this point, not being able to move past ‘ _this is fucking Bridget Westfall in my arms right now, wanting me, choosing me’._ Clasping Franky’s clammy hand in her own confident grip, Bridget led her over to the bed and gently pushed her down onto it. Franky took the hint and shifted herself up, her head resting against the pillows at the head of the bed. She watched in awe as Bridget crawled up her body on all fours, stopping every so often to softly kiss an expanse of skin as she did so. She paid particular attention to Franky’s tattoos, especially the blossom tree that stretched up her side. Franky let out a breathy exhale and bit her lip as Bridget’s hand caressed her breasts, pulling down her bra before moving up and latching onto each nipple. She lavished each one with her tongue before biting down gently, plucking at them, and Franky swore softly at the sensation, gripping the bedsheets under her.

Bridget smiled beautifully up at the woman spread out on her bed, looking every bit a goddess from some long-ago myth. She was praying at the altar of Franky Doyle, and as she slowly kissed back down her chest and stomach, watching Franky’s eyes flutter shut and her back arch, Bridget couldn’t help but feel the overwhelming need to convert, to _believe_ in something greater _._

She manoeuvred down until she reached Franky’s underwear and her fingers ghosted over her centre, drawing a breathy moan from Franky, before pushing firmly against her. Franky’s hips bucked once, twice, and her hands twisted tightly in the bedsheets.

“ _Fuck,_ Gidge,” she hissed, her teeth gritted at the sensations coursing through her. Never had she experienced such pleasure from something so simple. If Bridget carried on, Franky was sure that she would come undone without any effort.

“You like that?” Bridget teased, radiant. She had never felt so utterly free than now, in her bed with this woman. It was like she had been living in black and white, and the vibrant colours of Franky’s tattoos had broken through, colouring her world.

Franky nodded shakily, and Bridget pushed her fingers against her again, feeling her through the layer of underwear, seeking the heat she had been craving since their first night at the conference. Without hesitation, Bridget pushed the underwear aside and her fingers met Franky’s centre without barrier, circling slowly.

“Oh shit!” Franky swore as she jumped slightly at the sensation. _So much pressure, don’t lose it, don’t lose it, don’t lose it-_

“I love you,” Bridget said softly, watching Franky’s screwed-up face as she fought against the rising tide of stimulation. The words caused Franky to moan.

“I love you,” she repeated again, this time one of her fingers slipping into the welcoming heat and pressing up against Franky in the most magnificent way.

“G-Gidge,” Franky breathed, trying to open her eyes and watch as the blonde between her legs. Her hips rocked rhythmically in time with Bridget’s finger and Bridget didn’t let up, inserting a second finger and increasing the pace. Franky gasped, pushing her head back into the pillow as she felt the pressure building inside her.

“I _love_ you,” Bridget said one final time, reverently, breathing it into her skin as she ducked her head down and placed a gentle kiss right where Franky needed it the most. Her tongue darted out to lap at her and Franky cried out, feeling her release hit her like a raging storm. She shuddered, Bridget’s name on her lips, as her hips canted and she pulsated, the waves hitting her once, twice, three times before she could breathe again. 

All the while, Bridget smiled. She sat at the apex of Franky’s thighs, scanning her face for _something_ and when she found what she was looking for, she moved back up, removing and tossing Franky’s bra aside before settling on top of her, chest to chest.

Franky exhaled shakily, wrapping her arms around Bridget and, hands finding her arse, pulling her flush against her. Bridget sighed as she placed light, teasing kisses on Franky’s lips, pulling away playfully every time Franky tried to coax her into a deeper kiss. Franky pouted and her hand slipped down between them, under Bridget’s underwear. Her fingers skated over Bridget in just the right way, light teasing touches, and Franky felt it fitting punishment when Bridget pushed her hips down seeking more friction. Bowing to her wishes and not wanting to wait any longer, Franky moved her fingers firmly and with more pressure, catching Bridget’s keens in her mouth as she hungrily kissed her.

Bridget rocked against her hand, gripping the pillow beside Franky’s head as she closed her eyes. Franky watched in awe, overwhelmed by both the situation quite literally at hand and the fact that this woman, _this_ woman, loved her beyond anything. She’d never _made love_ before, but she could now see what all the fuss was about as Bridget’s darkened eyes met hers with such unconditional adoration. Bridget continued to move above her, and Franky continued to watch, dumbstruck. At Bridget’s insistence, she picked up the pace and her fingers skirted over Bridget’s own heat before pushing inside.

_“_ Ah, _shit,”_ Bridget grunted, moving haphazardly as she shuddered above her. She was _so_ close…

“Let go for me, Gidge,” Franky whispered and it seemed to do the trick. A few more thrusts of her fingers and Bridget came undone with a hoarse cry and collapsed on top of Franky, still trembling as she came down from her high. Franky soothed her with whispered affection, and she felt the short puffs of warm breath against her neck slowly return to normal. She felt small, languid kisses on her neck and both women enjoyed the silence of the moment, before Franky broke it:

“Denmark?” she whispered unsurely, tightening her hold on the other woman.

Bridget hummed in agreement, sated from their lovemaking.

“Denmark,” she said, with absolutely certainty. 


End file.
